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YOURSELF 
AND  THE  NEIGHBOURS 


Other  Books  by  the  Same  Author 

IN  CHIMNEY  CORNERS 

DONEGAL  FAIRY  STORIES 

THE  RED  POACHER 

A  LAD  OF  THE  O'FRIELS 

DR.   KILGANNON 

BALLADS  OF  A  COUNTRY  BOY 

THE  HARD-HEARTED  MAN 

WOMAN  OF  SEVEN  SORROWS 


*Hp»*a  r   Fock-fx-rv- 


HE  ASKED  THE  MASTHER  TO   '"GIVE  YOU  MIMORY" 

(page  is) 


YOURSELF 

AND  THE  NEIGHBOURS 

BY 
SEUMAS  MacMANUS 

Author  of  "A  Lad  of  the  O'Friels,"  "In  Chimney  Corners, 

"The  Red  Poacher,"  "Donegal  Fairy  Stories," 

"Ballads  of  a  Country  Boy,"  etc. 

Illustrations  By 

THOMAS  FOGARTY 


NEW  YORK 

THE  DEVIN-ADAIR  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1914,  BY 

THE  DEVIN-ADAIR  COMPANY 


First  Printing,  September  26,  1914 

Second  Printing,  December  7,  1914 

Third  Printing,  Christmas  Eve,   I9'4 

Fourth  Printing,  January,  1915 

Fifth  Printing,  February,  1915 

Sixth    Printing,   May,    1915 

Seventh   Printing,    December,    1915 

Eighth  Printing,  November,  1916 


•  *  * 


,.••*••'       • «     •••       '•  i  • '  -   « 

«•••»*•'  ••*••#    •  • ,  •       *    *         *  •         •  • 

.  •.    ■•*,♦.  .*    ••     •   .*   •  •«•«••    •  •   •    *  •  . 

.,     ..*,•»••    •    •.   ••  .     •  ••• 


T 
<bO' 

V. 

CONTENTS 

Yourself  and  Herself  page 

I.  In   Barefoot   Time n 

II.  Your  Courtin'  Days 29 

III.  Your  Weddin' 46 

IV.  When  A  Man's  Married 65 

V.  Evening's  Quiet  End 79 

The  Lore  You  Loved 95 

The  Priest's  Boy 105 

When  Greek  Meets  Greek 112 

But  When  Greek  Meets  Tartar  .      .      .      .118 

Your  Postmistress 126 

The  Bachelors  of  Braggy 134 

The  Masther 147 

A  Day  in  the  Bog 171 

The  Bacach 178 

The  Conquest  of  Killymard 188 

Denis  a-Cuinn  and  the  Grey  Man      .     .     .    196 

The  Come-Home  Yankee 209 

The  Gentle  People 232 

Gentle — And  Something  Besides       ....  247 

When  the  Tinkers  Came 262 

The  Tales  You  Told 270 

When  God  Sent  Sunday     ......       293 

188611 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

He  asked  the  Masther  to  "give  you  mimory" 

Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

Your  Weddin' 50 

"I  think  m  be  a  Masther"       ....      148 

"Spell  bomber gladoflim flastif amnio quentiali- 

ties" 164 

You  were  the  cynosure  of  all  admiring  eyes      222 


"The  pages  of  this  book  you  would  make 
musical  by  naming  on  the  very  first 
the  name  of 

Catalma 

who  once ,  from  out  of  the  wide  un- 
known beyond  Cruach  Ghorm  s  pur- 
pled peaks,  dawned  on  your  grey 
dream-world  of  Knockagar,  laying  a 
magic  light  upon  the  moors,  and  rim- 
ming the  hills  with  a  golden  glow,  and 
for  whom  now  moor  and  mountain 
fondly  yearn ,  crying:  "Come,  a  run! 
and  be  one  of  the  blessed,  the  Neigh- 
bours." 

Donegal,  Summer,  f<? 13. 


OVER  THE  HALF-DOOR 

IF  a  stranger  looked  over  your  half-door,  he 
would  see  something  to  interest  and  please, 
even,  maybe,  to  inspire  and  elevate  him.  For  he 
would  find  that  your  lives  are  not  as  barren  as  your 
bogs,  or  your  nature  quite  as  rude  as  your  hills. 
Indeed,  he  might  be  led  to  think  that — maybe  in 
obedience  to  the  beautiful  law  of  compensation — 
an  inverse  ratio  ruled  these  relations. 

It  is  now  a  long  time  since  first  your  people 
were  given  choice  of  fertility  of  soil  or  of  soul, — 
and  took  the  latter.  And  many  times  since  were 
they  tested,  but  every  time  they  chose  what  you 
think  was  the  wiser  part.  Owen  a-Gallagher  used 
to  say:  "Cromwell  commanded  us  to  Hell  or 
Connaught.  We  took  Connaught,  and  left  Hell  to 
himself." 

The  Cromwells  conquered  your  bodies  only. 
Among  the  moors  and  bogs  to  which  your  fathers, 
— with  their  fellows,  the  wolves — were  driven, 
hunted  and  starving,  they  reared  palaces  of  beauty 
imperishable.  And  with  humour  from  Heaven 
God  lightened  their  lives.  In  the  head  of  the  toad 
they  found  the  jewel — and  handed  it  on  to  you, 
their  heir.  If  one  lived  your  life  for  a  day,  one 
would  joyfully  realize  this. 

Here  you  give  the  world  a  hasty  glance  over 

[9] 


OVER  THE  HALF-DOOR 

your  half-door.  But,  let  it  bring  sympathy  to  the 
study,  and  it  will  see  very  much  more  than  is  shown. 
And,  if  it  like  your  homely  life,  let  it  come  again 
some  other  day,  and  learn  more,  and  love  more. 
You  will  put  before  it  fdilte  a's  fiche — a  welcome 
and  twenty.     And  maybe  lift  the  half-door. 


[10] 


Yourself  and  the  Neighbours 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

I.  IN  BAREFOOT  TIME 

FROM  the  outshot  bed  adjoining  the  kitchen 
fire — a  bed  that  never  contained  less  than 
three  or  more  than  five — you,  because  you  had 
reached  the  care-burdened  age  of  eight,  tumbled 
just  at  the  screek  o'  day,  when  your  mother,  the 
first  in  the  house  to  stir,  was  poking  last  night's 
coals  from  the  ashes  in  which  they  had  been  raked, 
building  them  on  the  hearth,  and  piling  black  turf 
around  them — to  make  a  big,  roaring,  blazing  fire 
on  which  would  boil  the  pot  for  your  morning's 
stirabout.  When  you  had  carried  in  a  creel  of  turf 
for  your  mother,  and  brought  her  a  go  of  water 
from  the  garden  well,  and  she  had  rewarded  you 
with  a  fadge  of  unbuttered  oaten  bread — surrep- 
titiously, because  it  would  never  do  for  either  your 
father,  or  the  bunch  who  were  still  in  the  outshot 
bed  sleeping  with  one  eye  open,  to  know — you 
took  a  grown  man's  stick  in  your  fist  and  drove 

[ii] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

Branny  and  Spreckly  to  the  Daisy  Park,  there  to 
herd  them  from  the  corn  patch  till  a  late  break- 
fast hour.  If  the  morning  was  a  frosty  one,  'twas 
biting  indeed  for  your  poor  bare  feet ;  and  you  must 
be  ever  moving  to  keep  the  little  feet  from  crying. 
Or,  if  you  dared  rest  a  while,  you  had  to  do  the 
goose — one  foot  drawn  under  you,  and  one  only 
on  the  inhospitable  ground.  And  you  favoured 
them  turn  and  turn  about.  If  it  was  a  morning 
that  poured  torrents  of  rain,  or  one  that  breathed 
a  stepmother's  breath  from  the  north,  you  brought 
old  sacks  and  a  couple  of  sticks,  and,  with  the  aid 
of  a  friendly  whinbush  on  the  fence  side,  made  a 
haven  that  was  truly  a  heaven.  What  exquisite 
joy  to  watch  from  your  Elysian  shelter,  where  you 
hugged  yourself  in  selfish  comfort,  the  blackheads, 
and  cunnellans,  and  heather-tops  and  long  grass- 
tufts,  bending  and  swaying  fearfully  beneath  the 
foot  of  the  ravager!  and  Branny  and  Spreckly, 
their  shoulders  to  the  wind  that  threatened  to  blow 
tails  and  horns  off  them,  sedulously  cropping  the 
niggard  blades  to  make  milk  for  the  stirabout 
which,  by  anticipation,  even  now  made  the  mouth 
of  the  hungry  boy  water!  Of  course  there  were 
magic  mornings  on  the  moors  likewise,  when, 
standing  by  your  cows'  tails,  you,  with  eyes  widen- 
ing in  wonder,  watched  the  red  sun  roll  over  the 
shoulder  of  Barnes  Mor  and  reveal  an  Eden  that, 

[12] 


IN    BAREFOOT   TIME 

you  were  falsely  told,  had  long,  long  ago  been  lost. 
But  every  kind  of  morning,  of  those  that  you 
herded  upon  the  great  wild  moor,  had  for  you  a 
mystery,  an  awe,  or  a  delight  of  its  own.  Some- 
times, in  fact,  steeped  in  wonder,  or  lost  in  rapture, 
you  so  far  forgot  yourself  that  you  even  ceased 
counting  the  minutes  till  the  call  should  come  for 
breakfast. 

But  what  a  raid  you,  savagely  ravenous,  did 
make  on  the  stirabout-pot  then !  No  prince  or  po- 
tentate in  all  the  wide  world  made  such  a  luxuri- 
ously gluttonous  breakfast !  And  sure  in  all  the 
wide  world,  there  was  no  dish  whose  delights  could 
equal  oaten  stirabout  with  the  small  sup  of  new 
milk  that  your  mother  granted  you,  and  the  big 
bowl  of  freshly  churned  buttermilk — no  dish  at 
all,  at  all!  Except,  of  course,  tea  with  buttered 
farls  of  hard  bread.  But  then,  this  was  a  feast 
that  you  felt  even  princes  didn't  get  from  their 
mothers  except  on  extraordinary  occasion  as  a  re- 
ward for  service  rare — maybe  finding  the  nest  of 
the  errant  duck  who  had  been  laying  abroad  for 
three  weeks.  And  always,  here  with  a  little  ache 
at  your  heart,  you  recall  that  sad,  sad  morn  on 
which,  just  as  you  had  concluded  a  more  than  us- 
ually gluttonous  gorge  of  a  more  than  usually  rav- 
enous boy,  your  mother  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
set  before  you  a  lake  of  tea  and  a  mountain  of  but- 
tered farls !    Tears  throng  your  eyes  again  remem- 

[13  J 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

bering  how  you  laid  your  child-head  on  the  impos- 
sible banquet-board  and  sobbed  heartbreakingly. 
You  travelled  three  miles  to  school  every  day — 
if  you  were  lucky.  If  you  were  unlucky,  the  school 
was  five  miles  from  you,  or  six.  But  what,  after  all, 
did  a  few  miles  less  or  more  matter  to  you,  who 
could,  like  a  hare,  scud  the  moors  and  bogs  and 
hills  and  dales  that  lay  between.  The  school  was 
even  a  bigger  thatched  house  than  your  father's — 
eight  or  nine  steps  long  and  four  or  five  steps  wide, 
and  the  eaves  higher  than  a  man's  head — into 
which  were  packed  ninety-nine  other  youngsters — 
all  of  you,  if  the  day  was  wet,  drenched  to  the 
skin,  yet  larking  and  light-hearted,  and  all  of  you 
bawling  together  at  the  top  of  your  voices,  every- 
one a  different  thing,  and  the  master  outbawling 
the  whole  hundred  of  you.  Even  if  it  was  your 
first  coming  to  school,  there  was  no  missing  your 
goal,  for  you  heard  it  four  hills  away.  At  first 
though,  your  elder  brother,  if  you  had  one,  or  else 
Michael  Hegarty's  son  Denis,  carried  you  most  of 
the  way  on  his  back,  your  two  feet  stuck  into  his 
pockets — which  made  comfortable  stirrups — and 
your  arms  round  his  neck :  except  on  your  very,  very 
first  day — when  'twas  your  father  who  carried  you 
thither,  and  soothed  you,  when  perturbed  natu- 
rally at  sight  of  the  great  big,  big  house  with  a 
window  for  every  day  in  the  week,  and  a  roof  on 
which  even  your  great  father  could  barely  lay  his 

[14] 


IN    BAREFOOT   TIME 

hand,  and  who  led  you  up  to  the  awe-striking  man 
with  spectacles,  and  requested  him  to  make  a 
schoolmaster  or  a  priest  out  of  you,  and  assured 
him  that  you  had  a  great  headpiece  entirely,  and 
would  confound  him  some  day  in  front  of  his 
scholars  if  he  didn't  be  on  his  guard;  and  asked 
him  to  "give  you  mimory,"  and  besought  him  to 
teach  you  Tare  and  Tret,  and  the  Double  Rule 
o'  Three,  and  finally  patted  you  on  the  head,  and 
said  "God  bless  ye,  Johnneen,  and  be  a  good  boy, 
and  learn  your  spellin's  and  your  sums,  and  the 
Masther  '11  make  a  man  out  o'  ye."  The  Master, 
then,  led  you  to  the  fire,  dispersed  at  the  point  of 
the  cane  half  a  score  young  rascals  who,  seated  on 
the  bare  floor  around  it,  had  been  pommelling  one 
another,  cracking  their  jokes  and  acting  their  an- 
tics— and,  seating  you  in  solitary  glory  on  a  pile  of 
books  by  the  hearth,  told  you  to  fetch  under  your 
arm  every  morning  two  turf,  your  daily  contribu- 
tion to  the  fire,  and  in  your  hand  every  Monday  a 
penny,  your  weekly  contribution  to  him. 

Immediately  the  Master  left  you,  your  school 
career  began,  for  a  gearsun  came  up  the  floor  on 
his  stomach  (so  that  the  Master  might  not  see 
him)  to  know  if  you  would  fight  Micky  Turn- 
money.  To  be  sure,  you  never  heard  of  Micky 
Tummoney  before,  and  knew  not  whether  he  was 
the  size  of  a  house  or  a  mouse;  but  long  before 
you  came  to  school,  you  learned  what  manliness 

[15] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

was:  so  you  promptly  signed  articles  to  fight  Micky 
Tummoney — or,  failing  him,  any  taker — after 
school  in  the  Square  Park.  And  then  you  saw  the 
apostle  of  sport  continue  his  grovelling  pilgrimage 
under  the  desks,  from  one  prospective  pugilist  to 
another,  arranging  the  daily  battle  list. 

Your  lunch  you  called  your  bit.  It  was  a  hunk 
of  oaten  bread  or,  in  poorer  times,  india-bread — 
that  your  mother  crammed  into  your  pocket  before 
leaving  home.  This  effeminacy  of  a  lunch  you  fol- 
lowed until  you  knew  better — that  is  to  say,  for  a 
fortnight.  After  that  you  either  ate  it,  for  con- 
venience sake,  on  the  way  to  school,  or  used  it  as 
ammunition  in  a  pelting  match.  If  your  fellows  dis- 
covered you  eating,  above  all,  a  bit  of  the  despised 
india-bread  at  school,  or  shamefully  concealing  it 
on  your  person,  they  sarcastically  sang  at  you : 

"Paddy,  Paddy,  India-buck! 
With  his  tail  tied  up  I" 

and  the  deadly  satire  of  this,  your  first  introduction 
to  English  poetry,  had  quick  and  decisive  effect. 

The  first  thing,  then,  that  you  learned  at  school, 
was  to  despise  your  bit — your  own  bit,  that  is,  for 
it  was  a  different  matter,  of  course,  if  you  were 
able  to  possess  yourself  of  some  other  body's.  The 
next  was  to  despise  slaps.  For  the  severest  cut  of 
the  cane  that  your  delinquency  earned,  or  the  Mas- 
ter could  give,  you  held  out  your  little  red  palm 

[16] 


IN    BAREFOOT   TIME 

with  a  stoic  expression  which  opened  to  you  the 
doors  of  the  hearts  of  all  the  brave  bold  fellows 
in  Cornamona  School.  Your  hardihood,  however, 
had  to  stand  its  final  test  in  the  Square  Park  after 
school  was  loosed.  There,  while  the  other  pairs  of 
listed  knights  waited  their  turn,  you  planted  your 
black  bare  foot  opposite  Micky  Tummoney's  very 
black  bare  foot,  and  the  two  of  you  glared  at  each 
other — all  the  more  fearfully  because  neither  of 
you  knew  what  he  was  glaring  about.  As  both  of 
you  were  dilatory  about  leading  unprovoked  hostil- 
ities, anyone  of  a  dozen  obliging  friends  (agents 
provocateurs) ,  always  prompt  to  further  a  good 
cause,  extended  a  horizontal  arm  between  you,  say- 
ing, "Who  dar'  spit  over  that?"  when  both  of  you, 
instantaneously  and  simultaneously  daring,  gave 
and  got  glorious  cause  for  battle.  The  salivial  in- 
sult must  immediately  be  wiped  out — in  blood  or 
mud !  Maybe  the  agent  provocateur  adopted,  in- 
stead, the  effective  plan  of  demanding:  "Who'll 
say  bread?"  drawing  from  both  yourself  and 
Micky,  in  the  one  breath,  "Bread  !"  "Then,"  would 
Intermediary  continue,  this  time  indulging  in  poet- 
ry, "pull  three  hairs  out  of  his  head."  As  bread  and 
head  make  poetry  that  even  Tom  Moore  couldn't 
beat,  no  young  man  of  spirit  dare  shrink  the  log- 
ical consequence  of  having  uttered  the  first  mystic 
word.      Accordingly,  yourself    and  Micky    made 

[i7] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

desperate  simultaneous  effort  to  put  the  command 
into  execution:  but  like  the  greedy  boy,  who  (as 
you  heard  read  in  class  that  day)  failed  to  get  a 
nut  at  all  out  of  the  narrow-necked  jar,  because  he 
grabbed  too  many,  both  of  you  were  unsuccessful 
in  your  praiseworthy  efforts  to  satisfy  the  demands 
of  Poetry.  But,  no  matter,  the  sought-for-end  was 
attained:  Micky  and  you  pounded  each  other 
gloriously,  reddening  mouths  and  noses  and  black- 
ening eyes,  and  forty  times  rolling  over  each  other 
in  the  mud  in  vain  effort  to  strangle  one  the  other — 
just  to  make  a  Cornamona  holiday. 

After  the  single  combats  were  pulled  off  to  the 
satisfaction  of  everyone  concerned  (except,  of 
course,  the  subjects),  the  battle  royal  began.  When 
sixty  of  you  reached  the  Crossroads — at  which 
point  you,  the  Back-o'-the-Hill  boys,  must  take  the 
east  road,  and  the  Glens'  boys  the  west,  it  was  al- 
ways tacitly  understood  that  you  should  treat  your- 
selves to  a  farewell  stoning  match.  From  long  and 
careful  practice  every  man  on  both  sides  was  a 
crack  stone-thrower,  and  sure  marksman  whose 
missile  if  it  missed  your  head,  you  heard  B-r-r-r! 
fearfully  in  passing:  just  like  Thady  the  Soldier 
told  of  the  cannon  balls  of  his  acquaintance  in  the 
American  war!  You  Back-o'-the-Hill  boys  gener- 
ally prevailed  over  your  enemies,  for  you  were  in- 
domitable fellows.     Yet  the  Glens'  boys,  winning 

[18] 


IN    BAREFOOT   TIME 

admiration  even  in  defeat,  stubbornly  disputed 
every  inch  of  the  ground  they  yielded — and  often- 
times the  battle  lasted  an  hour,  and  covered  two 
miles,  before  retreat  was  turned  into  a  rout,  and 
you,  Back-o'-the-Hill  boys,  faced  homeward,  riot- 
ously cheering,  and  heaving  rocks  at  the  defence- 
less doors,  or  down  the  chimneys,  of  isolated  cab- 
ins, thereby  winning  lively  company  on  the  way — 
for  one  ranting,  raging,  wrathful  man  pursued  and 
passed  you  on  to  the  next — and  the  time  was  thus 
cheerily  whiled  away  along  your  whole  line  of 
march.  'Twas  glorious !  Going  to  school,  in  fact, 
might  well  have  been  intolerable  to  you,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  coming  home. 

You  were  due  at  home  at  four  o'clock:  you  ar- 
rived at  six — if  you  weren't  a  very  bad  boy.  In 
the  latter  case  you  came  at  seven — or  after.  From 
four  onward  your  father,  whose  persistent  sim- 
plicity of  mind  was  marvellous,  quitted  his  work  in 
the  field  every  half  hour  and  journeyed  to  the 
house  to  enquire  if  "that  natarnal  young  scoundrel 
hasn't  come  yet,  or  what  new  divilment  is  he  up  to 
the  day?"  (It  should  be  remarked  that  he  has  now 
given  up  the  idea  of  making  a  priest  out  of  you.) 
Probably,  if  you  didn't  make  a  detour  with  two 
comrades  for  a  raid  upon  Jaimsy  McGrath's  bean- 
field,  it  was  your  day  for  robbing  Maura  Mana- 
ghan's  orchard  in  Magher-a-more — for  the  blae- 

[i9] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

berries  on  Slieve  Cullion  were  long  ago  eaten,  and 
the  nuts  and  sloes  in  Glen-na-madha  not  yet  ripe. 
Of  course,  Maura's  apples  weren't  ripe  either — 
but,  if  you  didn't  thoughtfully  take  time  by  the 
forelock,  the  rascals  of  Meenagran,  or  the  hungry 
young  natives  who  inhabited  the  upper  end  of  the 
parish  would  have  garnered  the  green  harvest  be- 
fore you.  All  the  bean-fields  and  orchard  lands  lay 
in  a  Land  of  Promise  five  miles  away;  hardly  a 
hawthorn  flourished  in  your  bleak,  black,  upland 
country.  When  the  early  harvest  came,  it  required 
assiduous  attention,  and  careful  planning,  and  an 
efficient  Bureau  of  Information  on  the  comings  and 
goings  of  the  enemy — the  orchard-owners — else 
yourself  and  comrades  ran  the  risk  of  being  cheated 
of  your  yearly  tribute,  while  the  over-fed  Bodachs 
of  the  valley  might  actually  enjoy  their  own  fruit. 
If,  not  having  had  the  good  luck  to  rob  an  orchard 
or  raid  a  bean-field,  you  had  only  been  indulging 
in  acts  of  general  wickedness  which  were  their  own 
mere  reward,  you  carried  home  a  ravenous  appe- 
tite for  the  stack  of  potatoes  that  (by  grace  of  a 
long-suffering  mother)  were  toasting  in  the  ashes 
for  you,  and  which  you  kitchened  with  salt — or,  if 
the  gods  (and  your  mother)  were  particularly  pro- 
pitious, as  once  in  a  while  was  the  case,  a  luxurious 
blend  of  pepper  and  salt.  And  so  intent  were  you 
on  filling  yourself  with  the  blissful  banquet  that 

[20] 


IN    BAREFOOT    TIME 

the  storm  of  your  father's  rebukes  and  threats 
broke  over  your  busy  head  in  vain. 

However,  if,  for  once  heeding  an  unreasonable 
father's  rebukes  and  threats,  you  travelled  the  three 
miles  from  school  in  two  hours,  your  pitiable  re- 
ward for  this  remarkable  feat  was  to  be  condemned 
to  the  slave  galleys,  breaking  sheuchs  or  kibbing 
potatoes,  herding  Branny  and  Spreckly,  or  pick- 
ing stones  in  the  meadow-field  during  all  those 
glorious  evening  hours  that  were  never  meant  for 
slaves — those  hours  when  the  song-birds  taunted 
you  to  find  their  nests,  and  the  moor  fowl  crowed 
over  you,  for  now  their  eggs  would  go  untouched, 
and  contemptuous  comrades,  passing  with  caman 
on  shoulder  ironically  invited  you  to  the  game  in 
the  Rushy  Meadow,  where  the  Back-o'-the-Hill 
was  to  engage  the  Mountain-Foot  for  the  caman 
championship,  and  your  ears  were  offended  by  the 
tantalizing  bip  !  of  the  handball  on  the  Widow  Bro- 
gan's  gable-end  or  by  the  hated  cries  of  other  com- 
rades who,  in  fields  just  hid  from  view,  indulged  in 
the  delights  of  "Duck,"  "Steal  the  Caps,"  "Bar- 
ney, Barney,  Buck-and-Doe,"  or  "Of  all  the  Birds 
o'  the  Air  and  all  the  Fishes  o'  the  Say."  You  set 
your  teeth  and  went  to  work  faster  and  faster,  and 
tried  not  to  think  too  bitterly  upon  tyrant  fathers 
and  the  trampled  rights  of  the  weak! 

If,  however,  you  heard  from  the  Rushy  Meadow 

[21] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

the  MountaJn-Foot's  triumphant  shouts  ring  out  too 
loud  and  too  often,  and  those  of  the  Back-o'-the- 
Hill's  grow  fainter  and  less  frequent,  'tis  ten  to  one 
that,  after  a  brave  struggle  to  yield  filial  obedience 
to  a  tyrant,  human  nature  triumphed ;  you  spat  upon 
slavery  and,  answering  duty's  call,  bounded  into  the 
midst  of  your  fellows  with  a  wild  huzza  that  rallied 
the  weakening  host  and  rolled  them  on  to  their  as- 
tounded opponents  with  such  irresistible  swoop  as 
not  merely  recovered  them — in  less  time  than  it 
takes  to  tell  it — all  the  vantage  ground  they  had 
lost,  but  actually  won  the  day  for  them  in  a  trail  of 
swift  and  lurid  glory! 

After  that  ecstatic  hour  'twas  just  bliss  to  suffer 
the  heavy  stick  and  the  heavier  tongue  of  a  mad, 
mad  father. 

Of  course  there  were  in  those  days  things  far 
more  dreaded  than  unreasonable  fathers.  If,  un- 
luckily, night  fell  on  you  and  your  comrades  when 
not  yet  in  sight  of  home,  'twas  a  hair-raising  ex- 
perience to  cross  the  Ainey  Steps,  where,  twenty- 
five  years  before,  the  ghost  appeared  to  Neill  Mc- 
Rory — and  took  a  bottle  of  whiskey  from  him ;  or 
to  have  to  pass  the  Bearna  Dearg  where  some  one 
or  other  saw  a  ghost  every  week;  or,  above  all,  the 
Fairy  Fort  where  you  ran  the  dread  risk  of  seeing 
the  Gentle  People  at  their  revels.  Sooner  than 
encounter  the  perils  of  the  Fairy  Fort  you  made 

[22] 


IN    BAREFOOT   TIME 

a  wide  detour,  so  that  you  could  only  just  see  afar 
the  fairy  lights,  and  faintly  hear  their  fairy  music 
and  laughter.  But  the  passage  of  the  Bearna 
Dearg,  which  you  must  come  through,  and  of  the 
Ainey  Steps  which  you  had  to  cross,  stilled  the  heart 
in  your  breast,  froze  the  marrow  in  your  bones,  and 
temporarily  turned  every  hair  on  your  head  into  a 
tenpenny  nail.  And  in  this  time  of  terror  all  mor- 
tal sins  that  stained  your  soul,  from  orchard-rob- 
bing to  gambling  for  horny-buttons,  and  fifty  other 
equally  fearful  crimes,  cried  loud  upon  your  trail, 
till  anguishedly  you  vowed  never,  never  more  to 
walk  in  sin — after  nightfall. 

When,  by  assiduously  pursuing  your  varied  call- 
ings, you  had  converted  your  clothes  into  what  your 
mother  termed  "flitterjigs,"  and  that  patient  par- 
ent had  ten  times  rebuilt  them  till  at  last  no  trace 
of  the  original  remained,  your  father  ordered  her 
one  day  she  was  preparing  to  go  to  "the  Town" 
(mysterious  Town),  to  fetch  you  home  (O  joy!) 
the  makings  of  a  new  suit !  Your  poor  mother  had 
innocently  asked  "What  stuff?"  and  the  cynical  par- 
ent retorted,  "Cast  iron,  if  ye  can  get  it."  But 
'twas  corduroy  she  got.  And  you,  proud  man, 
brought  the  bundle  under  your  arm  to  Taig  the 
Tailor  and  got  measured  for  a  new  investment,  and 
the  finished  suit  promised — O  tailor's  promises  ! — 
for  Sathurda'  night.     You  thereafter  learned,  in 

[23] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

soreness  of  spirit,  the  wherefore  of  the  nickname 
by  which  Taig  was  known  to  the  countryside — 
"Taig  Sathurda'  Night."  For  the  seven  weeks  that 
followed  Taig's  putting  the  tape  on  you,  you  might 
be  said  to  have  been  an  inmate  of  his  household; 
for,  if  you  weren't  there  in  person  (and  'twas  rare- 
ly you  weren't),  you  were  surely  there  in  spirit. 
And  oh !  the  bitter  Sathurda'  nights  that  were  yours 
ere  yet  that  suit  was  begun,  and  the  tedious,  tedious 
weeks,  black  days  and  dreary  nights  until,  at  last, 
just  when  creation  was  on  the  verge  of  cataclysm, 
your  bundle  of  corduroy,  grateful  smelling,  was 
opened  and  spread  upon  Taig's  board,  and  he 
took  chalk  and  shears  and  tape  to  aid  him  in  the 
mapping  of  your  anatomy.  During  the  making  of 
the  suit,  you  watched  every  single  stitch  that  Taig 
drew,  and  every  snip  that  he  snipped.  Never  was 
bridal  raiment  so  ardently  longed  for,  so  sedulously 
watched  in  development,  or  so  ecstatically  fondled 
as  was  that  suit  of  corduroys  whose  ravishing  joys 
put  to  shame  the  raptures  of  silk,  or  satin,  or  cloth 
of  gold.  You  invested  yourself  in  the  glorious 
raiment  then  and  there  (making  the  change  be- 
hind a  chair),  just  that  Taig  might  satisfy  himself 
it  was  the  best  "shoot  o'  clothes"  ever  went  from 
his  fingers.  His  wife  Sally,  with  a  prayer,  sprinkled 
it  and  you  with  holy  water,  and  wished  you  your 
health    to  wear  it.      "And,"  bitterly  added    your 

[24] 


IN    BAREFOOT   TIME 

father,  sotto  voce,  "tear  it,"  as  he  counted  down  to 
Taig  four  shillings  for  the  making  of  it.  Taig, 
heartily  wishing  you  health  never  to  wear  it,  prayed 
blessings  on  it  and  you,  and,  taking  from  the  mis- 
cellaneous collection  of  coins  which  formed  your 
father's  payment  a  red  penny,  put  it  into  the  new 
trousers'  pocket — "just  for  luck."  And  for  the 
first  time  in  all  your  life  you  swelled  with  that  bliss- 
ful feeling  which  only  swells  the  breasts  of  bloated 
capitalists.  As  you  went  home  to  your  mother  that 
evening,  only  touching  the  ground  in  an  odd  place, 
you  knew  not  which  was  the  greater  joy — the  sud- 
den achievement  of  wealth  or  the  new  suit.  The 
new  suit  soon  proved  its  surer  claim,  however;  for, 
like  the  spendthrift  you  were,  the  money  was  gone 
in  a  week ! 

You  had  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  a  circus.  Your- 
self and  comrades  used  to  listen,  awe-stricken  and 
fascinated,  to  the  tradition  that,  a  great  number  of 
years  before,  when  your  fathers  were  boys,  this 
most  wonderful  and  gorgeous  thing,  which  it  took 
nine  piebald  horses  to  haul,  and  which  was  accom- 
panied by  a  live  camel  with  real  humps,  a  learned 
pig,  and  a  monkey  that  was  more  than  human,  once 
passed  on  the  post-road  seven  miles  away.  Like 
the  comet,  merely  seen  in  passing,  no  one  knew 
whence  it  came  or  whither  it  went.  Like  the  comet 
too,  it  might  some  day  re-appear,  and  again  dis- 

[25] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

appear    into  that  mysterious    space  which    repre- 
sented the  rest  of  the  world  to  you. 

On  Sunday  afternoons  (for  it  was  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon,  people  said,  the  circus  had  before 
passed)  yourself  and  comrades  frequently  took  the 
seven  miles'  journey  that  brought  you  to  the  post 
road.  You  travelled  eagerly  to  the  highest  points 
on  that  road,  east  and  west,  and  strained  your  eyes 
looking  far  off,  and  then  knelt  down  and  held  your 
ears  to  the  ground — for  Neill  Moloney  told  you 
that  the  rumbling  of  the  great  caravan  was,  in  that 
way,  heard  for  two  hours  before  it  arrived  and 
for  two  hours  after  it  passed !  Oftentimes,  agree- 
ing that  you  certainly  did  hear  a  great,  distant, 
rumbling,  you  sat  down  and  waited  and  watched — 
for  hours  and  hours ! — even  till  fairy-time  had 
fallen,  and  finally  even  ghost-time,  on  a  handful 
of  teeth-chattering  heroes;  but,  alas!  vain  were  the 
sacrifice  and  suffering,  for  the  circus  never  came! 
Its  rumbling  must  have  come  to  your  ears  from 
some  more  fortunate  clime.  And  that  reminded 
you  that  you  heard  tell  there  were  boys  in  America, 
away  over  the  sea — cousins  of  your  own  even — 
who  saw  the  circus  passing  almost  every  year  of 
their  lives.  Oh !  to  have  been  your  cousin  in  Amer- 
ica then !  However,  sure  you  had  once  again  seen 
the  road  where  it  passed.  One  cannot  have  the 
universe. 

[26] 


IN    BAREFOOT    TIME 

And  if  you  didn't  see  the  circus,  sure  you  saw 
the  Town — saw  it  when  you  were  barely  twelve 
years  of  age.  It  would  be  literally  correct  for  you 
to  say  that  you  saw  it  at  a  little  more  than  ten  years 
of  age;  for,  yourself  and  the  boys,  after  long  talk- 
ing about  it,  set  out  one  Sunday  after  Mass,  and 
ran,  and  ran,  and  ran,  and  ran, — seeming  to  run 
beyond  the  world  entirely — till  you  reached  the 
crest  of  Killymard,  and  from  there,  sure  enough,  as 
you  had  been  advised,  saw  the  sun  glancing  upon 
a  lot  of  things  in  the  far  distance — the  roofs  of  the 
Town-houses  you  were  assured — roofs  made  of  a 
thing  called  slate  on  which  the  sun  glimmered. 
That  was  a  thrilling  sight;  and  it  set  some  vague 
thing  stirring  in  your  breast  when  later,  away  on 
the  lonely  hills,  you  herded,  and  used  to  recall  that 
wonderful  glancing  and  glimmering,  like  signals 
beckoning  you.  Would  you  ever  be  in  a  town? 
Would  you  ever  live  in  a  town?  and  be  dressed  in 
shop  cloth?  and  have  shoes  on  your  feet?  and  have 
a  hat?  and  a  whole  handful  of  pennies  in  your 
pocket?  Bah!  that  fancy  of  yours,  wilful  from 
unbridled  indulgence  in  those  long,  lonely  hours 
upon  the  hills  and  moors,  badly  needed  curbing! 

But,  at  twelve,  your  father  let  you  go  to  the 
Town  with  him  one  day,  seating  you  on  top  of  Jim- 
miny  Kelly's  turf-cart.  You  didn't  sleep  any  the 
night  before;  and  you  were  out  of  bed,  and  into 

[27] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

your  new  suit,  before  the  ring  o'  day  showed  in  the 
sky.  It  was  going  to  be  the  day  of  your  life.  And 
it  was.  On  that  day  was  lifted  for  you,  as  was  not 
yet  for  any  of  your  comrades,  the  deep  mystery 
that  had  ever  enveloped  that  wonderful  thing,  the 
Town.  There  were  houses  and  houses — and  on 
both  sides  of  the  road  too! — not  less  than  a  hun- 
dred houses  you  were  sure!  Fifty  anyway.  And 
with  upstairs  in  nearly  every  one  of  them.  And 
shops  and  shops.  With  windows,  and  things  in  the 
windows — pipes  and  things — and  balls,  and  sweets, 
and  tops,  and  things.  Oh,  to  be  a  town-boy !  Every 
day  of  one's  life  to  come  and  stand  all  day  looking 
into  the  grand  windows  !  Maybe  some  day,  like  in 
a  story — and  sure  stories  often  have  come  true ! — 
a  great  rich  man  or  a  prince  would  come  along  and 
give  you  a  penny,  and  you  would  buy  balls  and 
sweets  and  tops  with  it,  and  marbles  too.  Without 
your  knowing  it,  your  father  came  along,  when 
with  hungry  eyes  you  were  devouring  these  treas- 
ures, and  he  put  his  hand  on  your  shoulder  and 
said:  "Johnny  a  dhilis*  I'm  heart-sorry  I  haven't 
a  penny  for  to  give  you  to  buy  marvels,  or  a  ball, 
but  a  dhilis,  a  dhilis,  I  cannot."  Surprised  at  the 
pitiful  tenderness  in  his  voice,  you  looked  up  quick- 
ly, and  saw  there  was  something  wet-like  glinting  in 
his  eye.     You  knew  that  his  visit  to  the  town  was 

♦Pronounced  a  ycclish. 

[28] 


YOUR    COURTIN'    DAYS 

for  the  purpose  of  begging  the  landlord  (who  lived 
in  the  greatest,  grandest  house  there)  to  grant  him 
sparin's  for  the  rent  till  he  should  sell  Spreckly 
(poor  Spreckly!)  "Father,  dear,"  you  said  while 
some  curious  big  raw  thing  got  up  in  your  throat, 
"I  wouldn't  be  bothered  with  balls,  or  marvels,  or 
them  things." 

A  tear  from  your  guardian  angel,  falling  upon 
the  black  lie's  record,  instantly  transmuted  it  into  a 
shining  golden  truth ! 

And  that  moment  you  ceased  to  be  a  child. 

II.  YOUR  COURTIN'  DAYS 

Spreckley  was  not  sold  that  time  after  all. 
In  the  nick  of  time,  by  God's  blessing,  your 
oldest  brother  Barney,  who  had  been  brought  out 
by  Aunt  Sheila  to  America — to  Philadelphy — sent 
home  a  monied  letter  with  three  pounds  in  it.  And 
Spreckly  was  saved.  Then  grateful  hearts  re- 
joiced. 

Nevertheless  you  had  left  childhood's  dreams 
behind.  You  were  now  in  first  grips  with  a  grim 
world.  You  had  quitted  school  able  to  read,  write, 
and  figure;  and  you  were  in  the  South  Park  plying 
a  spade  between  your  father  and  your  elder 
brother,  digging,  foot  for  foot  with  each,  man- 
fully and  well.    You  did  all  kinds  of  work  on  your 

[29] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

father's  little  patch  for  three  years — till  younger 
brothers  were  fit  to  take  your  place. 

Then,  on  the  morning  of  Old  May  Day*  you 
rose  up  very  early,  and  took  the  hearty  breakfast 
which  your  mother  had  ready  for  you — tea  and 
bread  and  eggs  on  this  momentous  occasion.  And 
you  tied  up,  in  the  large  red  handkerchief  your 
mother  gave  you,  your  sadly  few  little  duds,  shook 
the  hand  of  your  father,  who  tried  hard  to  say : 
"God  take  care  of  you,  boy!",  took  your  mother's 
blessing  and  the  hot  tear  that  she  let  fall  on  the 
back  of  your  hand,  mumbled  a  promise  not  to  for- 
get her  warnings  or  your  prayers,  reverently  blessed 
yourself  as  to  a  bountiful  sprinkling  of  holy  water 
you  crossed  the  threshold,  set  your  bundle  upon 
your  stick  over  your  shoulder,  and,  too  cowardly 
to  take  even  one  backward  glance  at  the  mother 
who,  through  mist  of  tears,  watched  you  from  the 
door,  faced  the  twenty  mile  tramp  to  the  far  town 
of  Donegal,  where  the  Hiring  Market  was  that 
day  held. 

You  were  launched  upon  life  now — at  sixteen. 
And  many  a  long,  long  thought  did  your  young 
breast  harbour  on  that  memorable  morning  jour- 
ney! And  many  and  many  a  time  did  the  longing 
heart  of  you  race  back  to  the  little  thatched  cabin 

♦Twelfth  of  May.    We  still  observe  the  Old  Calendar  reckon- 
ing for  the  more  important  of  our  local  festivals. 

[30] 


YOUR    COURTIN'    DAYS 

situated  on  the  cold  shoulder  of  Cornamona — race 
back,  and  taking  position  in  the  chimney  corner, 
hungrily  watch  every  move  of  father  and  mother, 
sister,  and  little  brothers  ! 

You  found  yourself  in  The  Town — in  the  Mar- 
ket Square — taking  your  place  in  the  rows  (which 
lined  both  sides  of  the  street)  of  boys  and  girls,  all 
with  their  little  bundles  in  their  hands,  and  each, 
like  yourself,  an  exile  from  his  or  her  own  loved 
hillside  or  cherished  glen.  And  men  and  women, 
better  dressed  and  fatter  and  rosier  than  you  were 
used  to  see,  were  walking  back  and  forward  in 
front  of  you,  viewing  you  up  and  down  and  at  every 
angle,  and  commenting  pro  bono  publico  upon  your 
possible  virtues  and  certain  defects. 

These  were  your  prospective  masters  and  mis- 
tresses— farmers  and  their  wives  from  the  rich 
country  beyond  the  hills.  The  town  of  Donegal 
was  built  so  close  to  the  border  line  between  hill 
and  plain  that  it  naturally  became  the  meeting 
place  and  mart  for  mistress  and  maid,  master  and 
man. 

After  critically  viewing  the  whole  line  of  boys 
and  girls,  three  or  four  times,  and  pausing  in  front 
of  you  every  time,  a  comfortable  farmer  and  his 
wife  spoke  to  you  at  length,  and  invited  you  to 
step  out  till  they'd  get  a  better  look  at  you.  And 
when  they  had  asked  you  what  kinds  of  work  you 

[31] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

could  do,  and  what  was  your  ability  (strength), 
and  whether  you  could  milk  twelve  cows  and  churn 
the  produce,  and  mow  and  sow,  and  shear  and 
plough,  set  and  dig,  feed  pigs  and  thresh  the  corn, 
they  requested  your  terms  for  the  half-year  till  Old 
Hallowday — with  privilege  of  continuing  the  con- 
tract, if  you  survived,  and  they  liked  you.  You 
asked  six  pounds,  and  they,  professing  shock,  of- 
fered four,  and  finally,  after  haggling  for  three 
hours,  and  coming  and  going  several  times,  and 
getting  a  dozen  different  friends  to  help  them  pull 
down  your  price,  closed  with  you  for  five  pounds 
ten,  with  alternate  Sundays  and  Holy  Days  free. 
And  on  their  car  you,  with  your  little  bundle,  were 
borne  that  evening  twenty  miles  further  from  the 
home  where  your  heart  still  stayed — the  glad  sight 
of  which  could  not  greet  your  eyes  for  half  a  year 
to  come. 

Weary  was  the  work,  and  light  the  leisure,  un- 
der the  roof  of  the  stranger.  You  rose  and  began 
your  duties  at  five  in  the  morning,  and  you  ended 
and  went  to  bed  at  ten  at  night.  You  had  mighty 
few  minutes  to  yourself  in  all  that  time.  There 
were  no  dances,  no  raffles,  no  weddings,  no  sprees, 
no  markets,  no  fairs,  for  you.  Besides  these 
wealthy  ones — worth  a  hundred  pounds,  if  a  penny 
— who  lived  on  the  fertile  plains,  were  not  the  same 
at  all  as  your  own  people  of  the  stony  hills.    They 

132] 


YOUR   COURTIN'  DAYS 

had  mountains  of  money  in  the  bank,  but  not  a 
mole-hill  of  merriment  in  their  hearts.  They  wore 
shop-cloth,  and  had  a  suit  all  for  Sunday,  and  ate 
great  hearty  meals,  with  either  fish  or  meat  to  their 
Sunday  dinner  always;  but  they  never  knew  an  idle 
hour,  nor  could  enjoy  one  if  it  was  given  them. 
They  were  christened  without  sporting,  married 
without  courting,  and  almost  buried  without  wak- 
ing. They  were  heathens — that  was  the  short  and 
the  long  of  it.  Your  time  among  them  was  a  spell  in 
purgatory.  You  didn't  feel  yourself  at  all,  and 
groaned  in  bondage.  But  the  five  pounds  ten  helped 
at  home.  And  that  made  bondage  bearable.  Re- 
joicing, you  thanked  Heaven  with  a  full  heart 
when,  at  the  end  of  two  years,  the  call  came  for 
you  to  return  from  captivity.  Your  two  next- 
younger  brothers  were  now  going  to  hire,  your 
elder  brother  had  been  taken  away  to  the  Land  of 
Promise — to  Philadelphy — and  your  father  needed 
your  help  at  home. 

'Twas  then  the  beginning  of  new  life  to  you. 
Everybody  in  all  the  countryside  was  poor  enough 
to  be  happy,  and  to  take  Sundays  as  days  of  peace, 
and  joy,  and  relaxation,  and  summer  evenings  and 
winter  nights  for  social  intercourse  and  innocent  en- 
joyment. The  poor  boys  and  girls  of  home  were 
as  merry-hearted  as  if  money  had  never  cursed  the 
world.    Every  boy  of  them  had  a  Girl-of-his-heart 

[33] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

— a  cailin  deas;  and  every  girl  had  her  Share-o'- 
the-World.  It  was  in  the  Spring — the  glorious 
Spring,  when  you  came  back  from  Babylon.  And, 
as  if  it  were  yesterday,  you  vividly  remember  those 
glorious  moonlight  nights  when,  your  day's  work 
done  and  your  little  supper  dispatched,  you  walked 
nightly  with  Nelly  Caraban  over  the  brow  of 
Knockagar  to  the  boys'  and  girls'  meeting-place  on 
the  Glen  Bridge — the  Glen  Bridge  where  three  or 
four  roads  casually  came  together,  and,  having 
crossed  it,  just  as  casually  wandered  away  again, 
as  though  they  had  only  come  to  see  what  the  boys 
and  girls  were  about,  anyhow.  Though,  you 
sometimes  thought  they  came  there  to  give  the  boys 
and  girls  who  loved  to  saunter  on  them  an  excuse 
for  meeting  at  such  a  romantic  spot  as  the  Glen 
Bridge.  Trees  grew  there — both  above  and  below 
the  bridge.  A  mysterious  murmuring  river  that 
you  always  heard  crooning  to  itself  some  quaint 
old  tune  ran  far  beneath,  hidden  for  the 
most  part  by  the  blackthorns  and  hawthorns, 
and  the  hazels  and  hollies,  which  reached  to  one 
another  from  bank  to  bank,  trying  to  hide 
it.  But  a  glitter,  a  glance,  and  a  gleam,  here 
and  there,  discovered  the  well-guarded  one's  where- 
abouts. Pools  by  the  Glen  Bridge  were  trout- 
ful,  and  the  bushes  were  birdful,  and  all  around 
was  a  gentle  charmed  fairy  haunt — fairies,  the  gen-^ 

[34] 


YOUR   COURTIN'   DAYS 

tlest  of  the  Gentle  People,  and  most  loving,  who  de- 
lighted to  see  the  boys  and  girls  meet  and  mingle, 
and  the  music  of  their  merry  hearts  resound  upon 
the  bridge.  A  fiddle  or  a  flute  was  often  in  their 
company.  Sometimes  a  wandering  bagpiper  hap- 
pened along,  and  underneath  the  arching  trees,  on 
the  moonlight  mottled  road,  they  danced  the  jig 
and  ran  the  reel  to  the  magic  of  his  piping.  The 
play  of  the  moonlight  on  the  rosy  faces  and  black, 
and  fair,  and  red  heads  of  the  girls,  was  something 
that  might  well  entrance  angels,  let  alone  you  and 
the  rest  of  the  mountain  mortals.  Oh !  the  beauty 
of  those  moonlit  evenings  shining  far  down  Mem- 
ory's aisle  with  a  light  that  can  seldom  be  forgot- 
ten and  never  effaced!  The  innocence  of  those 
meetings  and  matings !  The  joys  of  them  !  Not 
stingy  was  the  world  in  bestowing  delights  on  you 
since  then,  but  not  all  of  these  together — honey- 
sweet  though  they  have  been — could  equal  the 
charm  unspeakable  of  those  moonlight  meetings  on 
the  bridge  of  Glen  Dreenan  in  the  white,  white 
springtime — the  springtime  of  your  life  and  of 
your  love,  as  well  as  of  the  year. 

The  long,  long  summer  gloamings  that  seemed 
to  have  no  ending  were  happy  times  for  you  upon 
your  hillsides.  Especially  happy  was  Midsummer 
Night — Bonfire  Night — when  the  boys  and  girls 
from  far  and  near  gathered  on  the  top  of  Drimag- 

[35] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

ra  and  built  a  bonfire  whose  blaze  was  yearly  seen 
and  praised  by  other  bonfire  companies  fifty  miles 
afar.  By  the  bonfire  that  night  you  danced  with 
the  girl  of  your  choice,  sang  songs  to  your  heart's 
content,  and  at  midnight,  taking  up  a  burning 
brand,  described  the  charmed  circle  round  the  crops 
and  round  the  cattle,  and  round  the  houses  where 
Christians  dwelt — a  circle  which  for  twelve  months 
was  as  wall  of  brass  against  all  evil,  ban  and  blight. 
Often  on  the  summer  evenings  you  met  the  boys 
at  the  cross  roads,  and  tried  leaps,  and  threw  the 
stone  with  them,  till,  after  the  cows  were  milked, 
the  bare-headed  girls,  in  two's  and  three's,  came 
on  the  scene  and  the  dance  was  begun.  On  Sun- 
days, the  moment  Mass  was  over,  with  the  breath- 
less crowd  you  hurried  to  the  handball  court — 
Peggy  Quinn's  gable — and  you,  the  champion  of 
the  upper  end  of  the  parish,  engaged  for  the  fifty- 
fifth  time  Tim  Griffin,  the  champion  of  the  par- 
ish's lower  end;  while  all  the  parish  ranged  itself 
around  the  three  sides  of  the  alley,  alternately  yell- 
ing till  you  feared  its  lungs  would  crack,  and  hold- 
ing its  breath  till  there  was  danger  of  explosion, 
and  finally  doing  its  endeavour  to  pull  the  arms  out 
of  you  under  pretence  of  handshaking  when  you 
had  beaten  Tim  by  a  single  ace.  Or  you  produced 
your  caman,  which,  unregenerate  that  you  were, 
you  had  during  Mass  hidden  in  the  long  grass  that 

[36] 


YOUR    COURTIN'    DAYS 

grew  on  some  poor  devil's  grave,  and  you  joined 
the  team  that  was  going  to  Glen  Mor  "to  take  the 
consait  out  o'  the  Glen  boys"  who  thought  they 
could  play  caman;  though,  maybe  you  returned 
with  the  conceit  clean  knocked  out  of  yourself — for 
a  week.  You  were  fresh  enough  in  the  afternoon  to 
join  the  group  of  girls  who  gathered  on  the  hillside 
to  bask  in  the  sun  and  show  their  O-so-neat-and- 
trig  white  linen  dresses,  and  their  O-so-beautifully- 
combed-and-shining  heads  of  hair,  and  sit  and  make 
merry  with  these  till  the  sun,  who  loved  indulgently 
to  dally  these  summer  Sunday  evenings,  felt  com- 
pelled at  last  to  leave  the  scene.  Across  the  valley 
you  heard  the  music  of  the  young  people's  laughter 
on  the  opposite  hillside;  and  below,  you  could  see 
the  courting  pairs,  like  coupled  sheep,  sidling  along 
the  path  by  the  river's  bank.  When  the  gloaming 
came,  with  a  black-haired  girl  you  took  the  path 
yourself,  and  went  down  it  as  swift  as  a  snail.  Re- 
turning again,  alone,  you  walked  briskly  and 
whistled  light-heartedly.  Another  beautiful  sum- 
mer Sunday  had  ended,  and  you  would  have  to  be 
afoot  betimes  in  the  morning,  with  the  scythe  on 
your  shoulder — for  your  father's  meadow  was  now 
ready  for  mowing.  How  is  it  anyhow,  you  won- 
der, that  thqre  are  now  no  Sundays  like  those 
Sundays !  no  Summers  like  those  Summers !  or 
Springs  like  those  Springs !    How  is  it  that  the  sun 

[37] 

18S611 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

does  not  shine  so  bright,  or  the  moon  so  soft,  any 
longer,  or  that  the  gloaming  does  not  fall  so  tar- 
dily, or  so  soothingly,  or  so  blissfully,  or  carry  with 
it  the  enchantment  that  those  gloamings  carried  in 
your  courting  days?  You  don't  know  how  it  is,  of 
course.     But  it  is. 

Well  it  cannot  be  helped !  I  suppose  sun  and 
moon  and  the  world  entire  are  all  getting  old  and 
careworn. 

There  was  time  for  everything  in  those  days — 
time  and  to  spare.  Time  enough  for  work  and 
plenty  of  time  for  play.  You  had  for  your  enjoy- 
ment not  merely  the  spring  evenings,  and  summer 
twilights,  and  winter  nights,  and  every  one  of  the 
fifty-two  Sundays — and  a  dozen  delightful  Holy 
Days;  but  you  had — cream  of  them  all ! — the  Har- 
vest Fair  of  Knockagar.  That  was  a  day  looked 
forward  to  by  youthful  humankind  and  girls  for 
eleven  months ! — the  greatest  day  of  all  the  year 
for  all  the  world!  There  would  be  assembled  all 
the  boys  and  all  the  girls,  for  miles  and  miles,  and 
miles  more  on  top  of  that  again,  with  their  new 
suits  and  dresses,  and  all  their  pocket  money,  the 
hoarding  of  months;  their  heaviest  purses  and 
lightest  hearts;  their  gayest  wiles  and  brightest 
smiles.  You  had  half-a-crown  and  a  new  homespun 
suit  yourself.  And  the  girl  who  was  now  shining 
in  your  heart,  Molly  Gilbride,  had  a  new  dress  and 

[38] 


YOUR   COURTIN'   DAYS 

a  new  bright  ribbon  in  her  shining  fair  hair;  and 
she  would  go  home  with  another  new  ribbon — you 
would  answer  for  that.  Yes,  that  was  the  whitest 
and  brightest  and  gayest  great  day  of  all  the  white, 
bright  year.  For  it  the  girls  were  preparing  for 
months  and  months  beforehand,  and  of  its  won- 
derful incidents  they  talked  for  months  afterwards 
— of  what  old  boys  they  had  seen,  and  new  boys 
whose  acquaintance  they  had  made;  of  the  boys 
who  had  nodded  to  them,  and  the  boys  who  had 
chaffed  and  chatted;  and  what  boys  had  passed  and 
repassed  them  with  hung  heads  and  blushing 
cheeks,  fain,  but  fearful,  to  speak.  Above  all  what 
boys  had  walked  them  and  treated  them  to  fairlies, 
and  made  them  innocent  merry  company  in  the 
tents,  and  seen  them  home  by  the  light  of  the  loveli- 
est harvest-moon  that  ever  shone  on  earth !  You 
met  and  made  merry  with  many  bright  mountain 
girls  on  that  blessed  Harvest  Fair  Day  of  Knock- 
agar.  And  you  thought  you  never  saw  the  girls 
look  so  winsome,  with  such  entrancing  blushes,  and 
captivating  shy  looks,  with  hair  so  shiny  and  dresses 
so  neat,  and  colours  so  bright,  and  with  oh !  such  an 
indescribable,  fascinating,  captivating  Something 
about  them  as  still  makes  that  great  day  so  strik- 
ingly stand  out,  haloed  with  golden  glow  in  Mem- 
ory's whitest  vista  !  Very  distinct  in  your  memory, 
too,  are  the  marvellously  learned  discourses  of  the 

[39] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

great  foreign  doctor  who,  through  pure  love  of 
mankind,  was  bestowing  on  the  multitude — for  the 
mere  cost  of  bottling — his  elixirs  for  the  cure  of 
all  human  ills;  and  the  hair-raising  magic  of  the 
Black-Art-Man;  and  the  yelling  of  the  apple-hux- 
ters  who  pelted  passers-by  with  fruit  to  convert 
them  into  customers;  and  the  bawling  of  the  ballad 
singers,  whose  absorbing  epics  drew  dense  crowds 
open-mouthed  around  them;  and  the  dilisc  sellers; 
and  the  great  white-roofed  tents  in  rows  and  rows, 
some  for  the  sale  of  fairlies  to  boys  and  girls,  some 
for  eating,  and  some  for  drinking;  and  the  forest  of 
blackthorns  flashed  in  air  where  the  joyous  fever 
of  a  fight  ran  wild !  You  have  still  in  memory  the 
Harvest  Fair  too,  for  that  it  was  there  you  met 
The  Farmer's  Boy — the  Boy  whose  name  was 
known  to  none,  though  his  envied  fame  was  fa- 
miliar to  every  brave  fellow  within  a  hundred 
miles,  whose  heart  warmed  for  suffering  country; 
the  Boy  who  carried  on  his  head  a  price  that  might 
well  have  tempted  the  richest,  yet  never  induced 
the  poorest,  to  betray  him.  Your  eye  brightened, 
and  your  cheek  flushed,  and  your  figure  straight- 
ened, when  you  found  suddenly  whose  hand  you 
were  shaking!  In  a  twinkling,  you  felt,  the  Boy's 
wonderful  gray  eyes  had  searched  the  inmost  cor- 
ners of  your  soul.  And  you  will  never  forget  the 
tide  of  pride  that  surged  through  your  veins,  when, 

[40] 


YOUR    COURTIN'    DAYS 

dropping  your  hand,  the  Boy  simply  said,  to  those 
who  had  introduced  him:  "He'll  do."  And  that 
afternoon  in  the  gloom  of  a  byre,  among  cows  that 
glanced  over-shoulder  wonderingly,  you  and  five 
other  stout  fellows  knelt,  and  took  from  the  Boy 
the  oath  which  ever  since  you  have  religiously  kept 
— the  oath  of  love  and  loyalty  to  the  Little  Dark 
Rose  and  of  scorn  and  defiance  to  the  Dark- 
Haired-One's  oppressor.  It  gave  your  heart  a  pang 
to  think  that  for  a  cause  so  noble  and  a  purpose  so 
sacred  you  had  to  conceal  yourself  in  a  cow-house 
— only  a  momentary  pang,  though.  You  strode 
into  the  fair  again  a  prouder  man  and  more  dar- 
ing. Even  Molly,  wondering  and  admiring,  re- 
marked this.  You  just  smiled,  and  bought  her  the 
best  ribbon  the  fair  and  your  finances  could  afford. 
But  when,  accompanying  her  home  that  evening, 
you  sat  her  down  underneath  the  thorn,  just  a 
stone-throw  from  her  own  house,  and  she  had  laid 
her  head  on  your  strong  shoulder,  you  told  her  the 
beautiful  secret  (which  brought  to  her  eyes  tears 
of  joy)  that  you  were  now  one  of  The  Boys.  Molly, 
without  speaking,  pressed  your  hand  in  both  of 
hers.  It  needed  not  her  speech ;  for  you  knew  that 
her  soul  said  to  your  soul :  "In  Ireland  all  men  who 
are  men  must  divide  their  hearts  between  two 
loves."  Stooping  down,  you  kissed  Molly's  white 
forehead.    Then,  looking  away  through  the  gloam- 

[41] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

ing,  as  both  of  you  sat  silent,  you  saw  the  mysteri- 
ous meetings  in  the  Glen  and  on  the  hilltop  and  in 
the  solitude  of  crowds  (as  on  this  day),  and  you 
heard  mysterious  glad  tidings  from  the  North  and 
from  the  South  whispered  at  those  gatherings,  and 
marvellous  tidings  from  the  greater  Ireland  far 
to  the  West,  where  patiently  watched  and  stren- 
uously worked  uncountable  thousands  of  leal  ones 
whose  hearts  would  never  forget.  You  kissed 
Molly  again  that  night,  as  you  went  with  her  up 
the  cassey  to  her  own  door. 

When  you  were  shearing  the  golden  corn  on  the 
Whinny  Hill  next  day,  you  were  in  a  reflective 
mood,  your  comrades  noted.  You  were  sweetly 
pensive,  for  you  •  heard  what  the  corn  said,  rust- 
ling as  you  cut  your  way  through  it.  It  said 
"Molly!  Molly!  Molly!";  and  then  "Molly  Gil- 
bride!  Molly  Gilbride!"  Molly  somehow  stood 
up  before  you  in  a  new  light.  You  used  to  chat  and 
chaff  with  her,  and  then  with  the  next  girl  you 
met;  and  you  thought  you  knew  her,  and  all  of 
them.  But  now  you  unreservedly  agreed  with  the 
corn  when  it  said:  "You  didn't  know  Molly — 
didn't  know  Molly!"  The  real  Molly  revealed 
herself  that  time  she  pressed  your  hand  last  night. 

You  were  learning  to  know  her  now,  and  the 
study  was  sweet  and  all-absorbing.  That  very  eve- 
ning you  must  go   for  another  lesson — and   fre- 

[42] 


YOUR    COURTIN'    DAYS 

quently  after.  It  was  a  long  study — but  you  were 
not  to  be  daunted.  You  found  harvest  moons 
conducive  to  progress,  and  Autumn  gloamings,  and 
the  Bridge  at  Glen  Dreenan.  When  the  winter  eve- 
nings were  on,  you  found  it  facilitated  study  to 
drop  into  Cormac  Gilbride's  o'  nights  and  sit  by  the 
bright  blazing  fire,  exchange  pipes  with  Cormac, 
and  opinions  with  his  good  wife  Sorcha — without 
saying  a  word  at  all,  at  all,  to  Molly,  who,  with 
eyes  downcast  and  cheek  flushed — you  noted  all 
this  with  the  tail  of  your  eye — was  absorbed  in  her 
spinning  wheel  in  the  corner.  You  included  her, 
of  course,  in  your  incoming  "God  save  all  here !" 
at  seven,  and  heard  her  join,  with  father  and 
mother,  in  giving  you  an  outgoing  "God  send  you 
safe!"  at  eleven.  But  nothing  more  had  passed 
between  you — seemingly.  Yet  it  is  a  question 
whether  these  lessons  were  not  the  most  profitable 
and  all-satisfying. 

At  the  winter-night  dances  in  everybody's  house, 
here  and  there  among  the  hills,  your  study  of  the 
new  Molly  steadily  advanced.  There  you  met  many 
bright-eyed  girls — but  none  like  Molly;  and  there 
she  saw  many  tall  brave  boys — but  none  like  you. 
You  knew  this,  because,  returning  from  every  such 
dance,  you  compared  notes  on  the  point.  At  last, 
one  night,  going  home  from  the  best  dance  of  them 
all — the  dance  given  by  Farrell  McKeown  the  fid- 

[43] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

dler  in  Dominic  Gallagher's  big  kitchen  in  Drim- 
alusk — you  both  agreed,  finally,  that  'twas  waste 
of  time  for  either  to  go  further  seeking  the  equal 
of  the  other — it  couldn't  be  found;  and  hencefor- 
ward you'd  give  up  trying. 

Next  day  you  spoke  to  your  father,  as  you 
wrought  side  by  side  with  him  in  the  potato  field, 
saying  you  believed  you  had  come  to  the  time  o' 
day  when  you  ought  to  be  thinking  of  settling  down 
and  marrying  a  wife,  and  your  father,  after 
a  minute's  silence,  said:  "Well,  Johnny,  a  thaisge, 
I'm  thinkin'  't  would  be  no  sin.  I'll  give  ye  my 
blissin'  and  the  far  end  o'  the  farm — five  acres  o' 
clay  land — and  help  ye  to  rise  a  house  on  it.  Have 
ye  a  good  girl  in  your  eye?" 

"Molly  Gilbride  isn't  a  bad  girl,"  you  insinu- 
ated, with  your  head  bent  very  low  over  an  extra 
tough  bit  of  lea  you  had  struck. 

"Her  father  and  mother's  daughter  shouldn't 
be,"  your  father  replied.  "They're  dacent,  in- 
dustr'ous,  right-livin'  people,  and  everybody's  good 
word  is  on  them.  I'll  never  hang  my  head  for  a 
son  of  mine  marr'in'  into  that  family." 

Your  mother — for  sure  there  was  nothing  could 
escape  her — knew,  as  sure  as  there  was  a  head  on 
her  body,  that  there  were  carryin's-on  between  your- 
self and  Molly.  But  she  supposed  it  was  all  right. 
She  never  heard  a  word  again'  the  girl.    And  she 

[44] 


YOUR   COURTIN'    DAYS 

had  to  confess  that  she  was  as  neat-stepped-out  a 
cailin  as  walked  to  Killymard  chapel ;  she  was  well 
"come-home,"  for  her  father  and  mother  were  both 
of  dacent  stock.  She  ordered  your  father  to  step 
over  with  you  that  night  to  Cormac  Gilbride's  and 
fix  up  things,  if  they  were  willing. 

You  did  chat  Molly  that  night  in  the  corner, 
with  both  your  backs  to  the  company,  while  your 
father,  in  the  opposite  corner,  debated  with  Cor- 
mac and  his  wife,  compared  the  prestige  of  your 
respective  families,  and  insisted  that,  as  his  had  the 
more  renowned  pedigree,  Cormac  should  balance 
things  by  bestowing  on  Molly  fifty  pounds  more 
than  he  intended. 

At  length  the  match  was  fixed — Molly  to  have 
a  hundred  pounds,  a  cow,  a  calf,  and  household 
linen;  and  yourself  the  five  acres  promised,  a  trig 
house  built  on  it,  and  the  venerable  Spreckly  into 
the  bargain.  When  you  walked  home  alongside 
your  father  that  night,  your  step  was  very  springy 
and  your  head  held  very  high,  and  you  felt  your- 
self a  great  deal  bigger  and  stouter  and  stronger 
than  ever  you  thought  yourself  before.  It  dawned 
upon  you  that  you  were  a  man  now.  Your  eyes 
were  looking  far  into  the  future.  With  five  acres 
and  a  hundred  pounds,  and,  above  all,  with  a  girl 
like  Molly,  small  wonder  your  look  was  bright  and 
brave  and  hopeful. 

[45] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

God  bless  the  both  o'  you,  and  have  ye  in  his 
keeping! 

III.  YOUR   WEDDIN' 

Thus  you  courted  before  you  wedded.  No 
one  did  otherwise  barring  Big  Patrick  MacHugh 
of  the  Hill-Head  who,  finding  the  season  too 
throng*  to  waste  any  of  it  courting,  sent,  as  substi- 
tute, little  Terry  MacMullen  of  the  Alt.  With 
the  result  that  Terry,  putting  in  one  word  for  Big 
Patrick  and  three  for  himself,  won  the  wife  and 
left  Big  Patrick  as  lonesome  and  as  throng  as  he 
deserved  to  be  for  the  remainder  of  his  days. 

Yes,  you  courted  before  you  wedded,  and  in 
choosing  your  sweetheart  chose  wisely  and  taste- 
fully as  well.  You  did  not,  like  Manus  MacRoary, 
merely  look  for  a  fine-looking  father-in-law  whom 
you'd  be  proud  to  meet  in  the  market  under 
the  neighbours'  eyes.  And  neither  did  you,  like 
the  Braggy  Bachelors,  seek  a  girl  who  "had 
good  wear  in  her" — one  modelled  like  the 
milk-churn,  same  diameter  all  the  way.  No 
more,  on  the  other  hand,  had  you  any  use  for 
the  other  pattern,  the  kind  who'd  keep  you 
breathless  for  fear  she'd  break  in  the  middle.  No, 
you  just  chose  Molly  Gilbride  because  she  was  as 

*Busy 

[46] 


YOUR   WEDDIN' 

graceful  as  the  mountain-ash,  as  blithe  as  a  bird, 
and  had  a  countenance  like  a  May-day's  dawn — be- 
cause she  was  a  sweet  simple  mountainy  girl,  win- 
some as  a  fairy,  and  full  of  goodness  as  an  egg's 
full  of  meat.  And  you  wedded  her  just  because  she 
was  the  finest  and  best  and  prettiest  and  dearest  girl 
in  all  the  world.  And  your  wedding,  the  greatest 
ever  was,  deserves  a  chapter  all  to  itself. 

As  the  Day-of-your-life  was  only  three  weeks 
away,  you  were  the  throngest  man  in  the  parish. 
You  had  to  travel  the  Barony  "bidding"  your 
guests.  And  no  one  you  dared  to  omit  who  carried 
a  drop's  blood  that  cried  "friend"  to  your  family 
— even  if  he  disgraced  that  drop,  for  blood  is 
stronger  than  steel  in  Donegal.  Moreover,  in  per- 
son, you  had  to  trudge  to  him  on  foot,  though  he 
lived  leagues  away  more  than  you  could  count — and 
had  to  eat  at  his  house — and  at  every  house  of 
thirty  in  the  same  day — eat  at  each  a  meal  that 
would  shame  a  mowster.*  And  you  had  to  hearken 
(but  it  was  now  no  bother  to  hearken  to  anything 
under  Heaven)  to  the  leagues-long  advice  of  all  the 
wives  in  the  parish,  and  write  on  your  memory 
their  own  prize  prescription  for  married  happiness 
— all  which  prescriptions,  with  marvellous  unanim- 
ity, tallied  in  their  constant  ingredient:     "Always 

*Mowing  hay  is  heavy  work,  and  great  entirely  would  have 
to  be  the  meal  a  mowster  would  shame  at  consuming. 

[47  J 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

take  your  wife's  advice."  This  unanimity  was  pos- 
itive proof  of  the  prescription's  soundness. 

You  had  to  allot  a  considerable  portion  of  your 
time  to  Taig  the  Tailor — a  day  with  him  in  Don- 
egal Town  while  he  chose  the  cloth  for  you,  the 
best  ever  cut  off  a  web ;  and  a  day  with  him  getting 
your  measure;  and  many  a  night  after,  sitting  on 
his  board  watching  the  stitches  as  they  went  in.  A 
dissipation,  maybe,  cold-blooded  people  would  call 
this,  instead  of  a  duty;  but  you  felt  certain  that 
some  stitch  would  run  the  wrong  way  on  that  suit 
if  you  didn't  watch  the  work  fixedly  for  at  least  two 
hours  every  night.  And  you  never  found  the  task 
tiresome.  But  then  of  course  the  stress  on  you 
was  relieved  by  the  compliments  every  incomer  paid 
you  on  the  quality  of  the  cloth  (after  he  had  fin- 
gered it  and  tugged  it  and  tested  a  thread  in  the 
candle-flame),  and  the  uniqueness  of  the  pattern, 
and  the  elegance  of  the  cut,  and  assured  you  that 
you  wouldn't  have  a  tooth  inside  your  head  or  a 
hair  outside  it,  when  that  suit  was  worn  out.  It 
was  plain  to  be  seen  that  there  wasn't  another  suit 
in  the  world  like  this  was  going  to  be.  If  ever  you 
had  a  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  your  wedding  suit 
was  to  be  the  first  and  finest  ever  left  a  tailor's  lap- 
board,  it  quickly  vanished  before  the  wand  that 
true  friendship  wielded. 

No  less  than  three  houses  were  to  be  put  under 

[48] 


YOUR   WEDDIN' 

the  wedding  party.  Molly's  father's,  and  Maurice 
Quigley's  and  Andy  Hegarty's  who  neighboured 
together — and  her  father's  big  barn,  moreover,  for 
the  dinner  and  the  dance.  And  all  three  families 
were  scrubbing  and  painting  and  turning  the  house 
inside  out,  day  and  night  without  ceasing.  And  the 
chimneys  of  the  countryside  reeked  (reminding 
Yankee  McGragh,  he  said,  of  Pittsburg)  with 
broiling  and  boiling  and  cooking  and  baking — 
hams  and  lambs  and  chickens  and  geese — against 
the  famous  appetites  of  the  weddin'eers,  till  it 
looked  like  there  wouldn't  be  a  living  thing  running 
on  two  legs  barring  the  weddin'eers  themselves 
when  the  wedding  was  over. 

'Twas  all  needed — and  more,  if  the  truth  were 
told.  There  were  a  hundred  and  fifty  couples  at 
that  wedding,  if  there  was  a  pair;  and  every  one 
of  them  seemed  as  if  they'd  been  fasting  a  fort- 
night. All  the  world  was  there  in  fact  barring  its 
tailors  and  shoemakers,  now  dead  from  working 
day  and  night.  Not  to  mention  its  dressmakers, 
who  were  past  praying  for  entirely.  For  five  miles 
in  every  direction,  at  an  early  hour,  the  hillsides 
began  dotting  with  girls  in  their  ribbons,  and  boys 
in  their  brogues  and  best  broadcloth,  who,  as  blithe 
as  the  larks  above  them  and  with  hearts  higher  far, 
were  headed  for  your  house  or  Molly's  that  morn- 
ing. 

[49] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

And  what  a  morning  it  was!  Sure,  the  like  of 
it  never  fell  from  the  Heavens  before — nor  since. 
You  never  saw  the  sun  shine  the  same  as  it  did  that 
morning.  You  never  saw  the  cows  in  the  meadow 
nor  the  calves  in  the  paddock  so  playful,  nor  the 
colts  on  the  hill  kicking  their  heels  so  madly. 

You  never  found  the — the — the — oh,  you 
couldn't  tell  what  it  was ! — the  something-or-other 
in  the  air  the  same  as  it  was  that  morning.  And 
there  was  a  blue  in  the  sky  and  a  glimmer  on  the 
river,  and  a  shimmer  on  the  lake,  and  a  smile  over 
the  hills  that  you  never  remembered  seeing  any 
other  morning  of  all  your  life.  It  was  surely  curi- 
ous, but  all  the  world  somehow  seemed  to  sense 
that  there  was  something  extraordinary  in  the  wind. 
You  yourself  were  terribly  restless  and  fidgetty, 
and  your  mother  had  a  hard  time  entirely  dressing 
you  properly  and  tying  bow-knots,  two  on  your 
brogues  and  another  on  your  neck,  and  trying  to 
make  your  new  suit  lie  down  on  you  properly.  She 
almost  spent  as  much  time  on  you  this  morning  as 
she  spent  on  your  father  every  morning  he  went  to 
Market  or  Mass.  And  a  dozen  times  she  said  to 
you  just  as  she  used  to  him :  "Och,  Och,  but  it's  the 
heartbreak  you  are  entirely!" — every  time  adding, 
"May  the  Lord  look  down  on  the  woman  who's 
gettin'  you !"  But  there  was  a  something  wet  in 
her  eyes  all  the  same;  pity,  it  must  have  meant,  for 

[50] 


Q 
Q 
W 

o 


if 


YOUR    WEDDIN' 

the  woman  who  was  going  to  inflict  herself  with 
you. 

The  Groom's  Party  had  now  collected — not  one 
couple  less  than  five  and  fifty.  The  fiddlers,  who 
had  slept  at  your  house  the  night  before — sleep 
being  a  figure  of  speech  on  this  occasion — headed 
the  gay  procession,  and  their  beat  wasn't  to  be 
found  in  the  barony.  Your  mother  showered  you 
with  holy  water,  and  after  a  vain  effort  to  keep  up 
the  sham  of  indifference,  broke  down  and  cried  on 
your  shoulder;  while  your  father  thought  he  hid 
his  feelings  behind  a  whack  of  his  stick  and  a  curt: 
"God  bless  you !"  before  you  took  your  place  wit. 
the  Best  Man,  behind  the  fiddlers.  And,  two  b" 
two,  the  bravest  Groom's  Party  the  parish  had  seen 
in  seven  years  set  off — to  meet  at  the  Bridge  of 
Aughrim  the  proudest  Bride's  Party  seen  in  a  cen- 
tury. But,  since  Adam  was  a  caddy,  there  never 
was  seen  the  like  of  the  two  together,  when  they 
joined  and  headed  for  Frosses  chapel  with  four 
fiddlers'  elbows  going  like  steam-engines  in  front, 
fetching  from  the  fiddles  the  last  note  that  was  in 
them,  followed  by  upwards  of  a  hundred  couples  of 
the  comeliest  boys  and  winsomest  cailins  the  coun- 
tryside knew — led  by  the  proudest  boy  (though 
you  say  it  yourself)  and  sweetest  cailin  ten  times 
over  of  the  collection — every  boy  of  them  strutting 
as  if  it  was  his  day,  and  every  cailin  with  tucked 

[5i] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

skirts,  and  folded  shawl,  blushing  and  smiling  like 
a  May  morning,  as  wondering  how  soon  she  might 
be  walking  to  her  own  wedding. 

The  sun — the  brightest,  more  betoken,  that  ever 
shone — had  come  up  over  the  shoulder  of  Barnes 
Mor  mountain  in  time  to  be  with  the  party;  the 
primroses  by  the  roadside  were  smirking,  and  the 
daisies,  shaking  the  dew  off  themselves,  were  let- 
ting on  to  look  surprised  (as  if  they'd  never 
noticed  the  carryings-on  between  Molly  and  your- 
self) ,  and  the  whin  flower,  running  like  a  fire  across 
the  moor,  was  laughing  for  the  fun  of  the  thing. 
The  larks  above  the  heather  were  bursting  their 
little  breasts  trying  which  of  them  would  spill  most 
joy  on  you,  while  the  black-bird  in  the  bush  (the 
rascal!)  did  nothing  that  morning  but  twit  you 
with  "Molly!  Molly!  Molly  Gilbride!"  And 
when  the  party  crossed  the  Ainey  River  by  the  step- 
ping stones  (the  boys  helping  their  girls  to  jump 
from  the  one  big  rock  to  the  other) ,  behold  even 
the  river  had  got  hold  of  the  black-bird's  joke! 

But  you  didn't  mind  ! 

Over  the  brown  moors  and  down  the  green  hill- 
sides and  along  the  stony  lanes  and  casseys,  and 
across  the  black  bogs  (where  cean-a-bhans  nodded 
a  million  white  heads),  trooped  the  glad  country- 
side— the  rheumatic  old  woman  racing  with  the 
barefoot  boy — to  get  close  view  of  you  and  tell  you 

[52] 


YOUR    WEDDIN' 

it  was  the  purtiest  party,  and  the  bravest  (God 
bless  it!)  the  heather  had  ever  bent  to,  and  to 
shower  the  pair  of  you  with  prayers  that  gave  the 
angels  an  ache  in  their  arm  putting  upon  record. 
Though  more  than  half  the  crowd,  dumbfounded 
with  dint  of  admiration,  could  only  shake  their 
heads  and  cluck  their  tongues  for  wonder  beyond 
words.  The  open-mouthed  onlookers,  lining  the 
route,  had  wonderful  taste,  for  they  one  and  all 
agreed  that  radiant  Molly  was  the  winsomest  bride 
and  you  the  comeliest  groom  they'd  ever  seen  walk 
the  way!  But  after  all,  sure  how  could  they  help 
acknowledging  it?  'Twas  a  picture  worth  walking 
forty  miles  on  one's  bare  knees  to  see.  With  folded 
skirts  showing  neat  ankles  and  striped  petticoat, 
her  grandmother's  cashmere  shawl  on  her  arm,  and 
no  covering  whatsoever  to  hide  her  handsome  head 
and  keep  the  light  of  morning  from  her  eyes, 
Molly  had  no  peer.  And  as  for  yourself — well, 
you  modestly  tie  your  tongue.  Only,  you'll  not  call 
the  neighbours  liars.  But  you  will  say  that  when 
he  tied  the  knot,  Father  Dan  (who  was  never  sore 
on  compliments)  in  the  hearing  of  all  confessed 
that  he'd  given  his  blessing  to  more  than  one  uglier 
pair. 

If  there  was  anything  ever  equalled  the  beauty 
of  that  morning,  it  was  the  joy  of  the  evening.  It 
wasn't  the  young  in  years  alone  collected  at  the 

[53] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

house,  chatting  and  story-telling  and  leaping  and 
boxing  and  boasting,  but  the  young-hearted  like- 
wise, and  the  bulk  of  them  younger  than  the  young, 
as  they  proved  before  morning.  For  the  youths 
of  three  and  four  score  who  came  to  your  wedding 
ranged  themselves  with  Long  John  Mac  Ardle, 
a  sprightly  youth  of  eighty-eight,  when  he  stated 
that  the  only  man  he  wouldn't  knock  down  for  call- 
ing him  old  would  be  the  man  who'd  put  sods  on 
his  coffin.  And  women  young  and  old  were  there 
in  flocks,  wondering  at  the  splendour  of  the  wed- 
ding arrangements,  admiring  the  linens,  and  mar- 
velling at  the  delft,  and  "tchuck-tchucking!"  in  ad- 
miration of  the  knives  and  spoons,  fingering 
Molly's  dress,  praising  it,  and  so  ceaselessly  wor- 
shipping the  blushing  girl's  beauty  that  'twas  a 
God-send  she  wasn't  given  to  apoplexy. 

Three  houses  were  under  the  party — not  to  men- 
tion the  barn ;  and  you'd  wonder  where  under  the 
stars  the  two  mothers  could  collect  so  many  assist- 
ants with  white  aprons  as  were  darting  hither  and 
thither  with  a  fork  or  a  spoon  or  a  bowl  of  milk 
in  their  hands,  and  a  look  on  their  face  as  if  the 
world's  wheels  would  stop  whirling  unless  they  did 
their  duty — and  tripping  one  another  up  and  knock- 
ing one  another  down  and  upsetting  everyone  else 
who  came  in  their  way.  And  Molly's  mother  and 
yours  indulged  themselves  with  the  luxury  of  the 

[54] 


YOUR   WEDDIN' 

most  care-worn  faces  they  could  accommodate,  and 
heartily  agreed  in  the  hearing  of  every  one  that 
weddings  were  bothersome,  and  'twould  be  well  for 
the  world  if  there  was  a  stop  put  to  them  entirely. 
Haystacks  of  hams  and  lambs  and  sides  of  bacon 
were  built  on  seven  tables  in  the  barn,  balanced 
by  back-burdens  of  chickens  and  ducks  and  geese, 
not  to  mention  mountains  of  potatoes  laughing 
through  their  jackets,  and  seas  of  sauce  you  might 
swim  in.  The  sight  of  lashin's  and  leavin's  of  all 
eatables  and  drinkables  made  the  party  feel  as  hun- 
gry as  if  they'd  been  fasting  a  fortnight.  Father 
Dan,  poor  man,  who  held  the  head  of  the  table, 
worked  like  a  warrior  tryin'  to  serve  them  fast 
enough.  And,  poor  man,  himself  fared  the  worst 
that  day,  and  must  have  fattened  on  his  fun.  Not 
less  than  nineteen  women  were  piling  plates  on  him 
at  the  same  time;  and  the  sweat-drops  on  his  fore- 
head were  bigger  than  the  rosary  beads  in  his 
pocket  while  he  carved  meat  by  the  mile  for  half 
the  world.  But  double  the  work  wouldn't  hinder 
Father  Dan  from  hailing  his  jokes  on  all  corners 
of  the  house.  And  in  such  merry  uproar  did  he 
keep  the  tables  that  Reddy  Hanlon,  trying  to  man- 
age a  laugh  without  missing  a  mouthful,  choked 
three  times  before  the  dinner  was  done;  and  Ned 
the  Thrasher  had  to  flail  him  like  a  flounder  on  the 
back  to  drive  the  bite  up  or  down — half  killing  him 

[55] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

in  order  to  cure  him.  But  'twas  only  another  joke 
from  Father  Dan  that  made  Reddy  every  time  con- 
sent to  cough  up  the  mouthful.  And  the  good 
man's  jokes  were  so  clever  that  the  man  who  was 
hit  hardest  always  laughed  the  heartiest,  and  held 
higher  his  head  for  the  night's  remainder,  since  he 
was  now  honoured  forever.  But  sure  his  jokes  fell 
— as  himself  said — like  the  rain  of  Heaven,  on 
both  the  just  and  the  unjust,  so  that  at  the  night's 
end  not  a  soul  could  ask:  "How  was  Father  Dan 
spited  that  I  should  be  slighted."  And,  och  sure 
what  would  a  weddin'  dinner  be — the  best  o'  them, 
even  yours — without  the  delightful  Father  Dan 
whose  peer  you  couldn't  find  from  Farramore  to 
California ! 

The  Masther  to  be  sure — Masther  O'Doherty 
of  the  Eskar  School,  who  had  the  second  post  of 
honour  facing  Father  Dan — did  the  brunt  of  what 
work  Father  Dan  didn't  find  time  for.  And  in  his 
own  learned  way,  he  did  no  small  part  to  make 
yourself  proud  and  everyone  happy.  It  was  a 
priceless  privilege  to  see  him  play  with  the  appall- 
ingest  words  in  the  dictionary  as  airly  as  if  they 
were  so  many  children's  marbles.  And  when 
Father  Dan  cracked  a  joke  on  him,  he  almost  gave 
back  better  than  he  got.  Leastwise,  each  word  of 
his  reply  was  as  big  as  five  of  Father  Dan's.  For 
even  the  littlest  children  that  crowded  the  door  and 

[56] 


YOUR   WEDDIN' 

squatted  on  the  floor,  and  packed  the  barn's  waste 
spots,  could  understand  Father  Dan's  jokes.  To 
crown  it  all  the  Masther  was  a  born  poet  and  a 
singer — suffering  since  childhood  (he  used  to  daz- 
zle all  the  old  women  and  you  by  declaring)  from 
a  curious  complaint  he  named  furor  poeticus,  from 
the  grips  of  which  he  never  failed  to  come  out 
without  a  new  and  very  learned  song.  And  he 
delighted  the  house,  and  dazzled  yourself,  and 
dumbfounded  poor  Molly  by  arising  in  his  place, 
the  dint  of  the  dinner  being  over,  and  singing  a 
song  he  said  he  had  prepared  for  the  occasion  (in 
the  course  of  his  last  attack),  "Sweet  Molly  Ma- 
chree." 

THE  MASTHER'S  SONG 

"All  for  recreation,  and  sweet  meditation, 

And  perambulation,  one  mornin'  in  May, 
As  bright  Sol  ascended,  my  footsteps  I  wended 

Where's  hawthorn's  suspended,  and  mantled  my 
way: 
On  my  eyes  dawned  a  vision — an  angel  Elysian, 

All  fairer  than  Helen,  it  was  that  met  me; 
Supremely  more  modest  than  princess  or  goddess — 

Her    appellation     was     Molly,     sweet     Molly 
Machree ! 

"In  the  luxuriant  bushes  harmonious  thrushes, 
And  gay  birds  of  passage  did  guilelessly  sing; 

[57] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

Their  incense  and  fragrance,  in  odorous  radiance, 
The  flowers  circumambient  did  gorgeously  fling. 

Said  I :    'Is  this  Hebe,  or  Venus'  self  maybe? 
Or  some  other  potentate  of  high  degree?' 

But,  no  'twas  a  maiden,  sublunar,  love-maiden — 
Her    appellation     was     Molly,     sweet     Molly 
Machree ! 

"It's  my  affirmation,  her  cheeks  were  carnation, 

Her  bosom's  inflation  a  bower  of  bliss; 
The  robin's  adjoining  were  longing  and  pining, 
Their  pretty  beaks  watering,  her  sweet  lips  to 
kiss. 
Her  step  all  so  stately,  her  form  so  sedately, 

Contiguous  she  drew,  and  advanced  unto  me; 
My    heart   loudly   trembled,    my  tongue    it    dis- 
sembled— 
Her    appellation     was     Molly,     sweet     Molly 
Machree! 

"Great  Sol  in  his  lustre,  the  stars  in  a  cluster, 

The  Emperor  Augustus  compare  not  at  all 
With  the  intoxication,  amaze,  and  elation, 

And  the  consternation  that  did  me  befall. 
And  that  fair  enslaver  of  renowned  behaviour, 

And  be-at-ific  visage  contiguous  to  me, — 
This  vision  resplendent — my  peace  of  mind  ended! 

Her    appellation    was     Molly,     sweet     Molly 
Machree!" 

[58] 


YOUR   WEDDIN' 

And  when  the  beautiful  song  was  sung,  and  the 
rafters  rang  to  the  cheering  of  the  enchanted  com- 
pany, Molly,  blushing  like  a  sunset,  hid  her  head 
with  dint  of  confusion,  while  you  took  her  hand, 
and,  acting  for  her,  said:  "May  God  forever  bless 
you,  Masther  O'Doherty."  All  through  the  fes- 
tivities, it  was  Molly's  endeavour  and  your  own 
(which,  more  betoken,  both  of  you  very  nearly 
succeeded  in)  to  keep  the  quietest  in  the  house,  act- 
ing as  if  you'd  dropped  into  somebody's  wedding. 
And,  indeed,  with  Father  Dan  and  the  Masther 
guiding  the  fun,  and  the  father  and  mother  of  both 
o'  you  well  seconding  them,  there  was  little  left  for 
you  to  do  but  look  on  and  be  glad-hearted. 

But  surely  everyone  did  his  part,  and  the  part  of 
five  besides,  even  before  the  dancing  began.  And 
for  the  dancing,  after  fifty  handy  fellows  had  flung 
the  tables  and  chairs  from  the  barn  and  strung 
ready-made  seats  of  fir-logs  around  it,  the  fiddlers 
and  pipers  were  perched  upon  home-made  ped- 
estals, where  they  resined  their  bows,  and  scraped 
their  fiddles,  and  squeaked  their  chanters,  and  en- 
quired what  was  wanted — till  the  Masther  himself, 
taking  the  floor  with  the  comliest  cailin  he  could 
find,  demanded  the  reel,  "The  Ladies  o'  Carrick," 
the  first  rousing  bar  of  which  set  something  dinn- 
ling  in  the  heels  of  every  mortal  present.  And 
sixty  brave  couples  were  on  the  floor,  curtseying 

[59] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

to  each  other  before  you'd  say  "Whack!"  and  next 
minute,  to  the  finest  music  ever  flowed  from  fid- 
dler's box  or  piper's  bag,  were  running  the  finest 
reel  ever  delighted  the  eye  of  an  Irishman. 

And  that  began  the  fun  that  didn't  find  its  end 
till  morning. 

But  'twasn't  on  the  dance  alone  the  mirth  and 
merriment  depended.  Light  hearts  were  as  plenty 
there  as  light  heels — and  Terry  Mac  Gowran  was 
ready  to  swear  that  every  soul  present  must  have 
been  whetting  his  wits  for  a  fortnight.  'Twas  like 
the  corn  stalks  to  the  shearing  hook  on  September 
day  the  way  those  jokes  cracked  thick  and  fast. 
Like  so  many  princes  scattering  their  gold,  the  fid- 
dlers and  pipers  on  their  thrones  were  flinging  their 
jokes  broadcast  to  the  joysome  crowd.  Only,  faith, 
this  crowd,  proving  itself  not  poverty-stricken 
either,  returned  as  good  as  it  got.  Wit  in  fact  was 
in  the  air,  and  terribly  catching.  It  smote  the  dull- 
est dunce — if  a  dunce  was  there — and  made  wags 
of  the  gravest,  while  the  real  wits  were  trans- 
formed to  wonders.  Billy  the  Blade,  doubled  up 
in  one  corner,  with  a  tongue  like  a  razor,  and  Phil 
the  Fiddler,  whose  humour,  like  the  Well  of  Warra 
Mor,  never  ran  dry,  and  Larry-come-lately,  in  the 
other  end  of  the  house,  who'd  never  met  his  match 
in  sconcing  (bantering)  yet,  kept  the  fun-ball  fly- 

[60] 


YOUR   WEDDIN' 

ing,  and  every  one  in  the  house  gave  it  a  push  as 
it  passed  him. 

There  were  as  pretty  dancers  there  as  ever  beat  a 
floor,  and  to  watch  them  was  a  treat  worth  trav- 
elling for.  This  pair  and  that  won  words  of  com- 
mendation plenty,  and  hearty  shouts  of  praise 
raised  high  above  the  din;  but  final  judgment 
wasn't  to  be  given  till,  after  the  choicest  pairs  had 
proved  themselves  in  the  general  dance,  they'd, 
pair  by  pair,  get  fair  play  and  a  free  floor  to  show 
to  all  which  was  the  best.  Then  the  excitement 
ran  so  high  all  round  the  house  that,  when  the 
fanciest  couples  of  them  took  the  floor  and  curtseyed 
to  the  fiddlers,  'twas  well  no  onlooker  was  ac- 
quainted with  heart-disease.  The  thunders  of  de- 
light each  well-danced  brace  drew  from  their  back- 
ers at  sitting  down,  should  shake  the  stars  you'd 
think.  But  each  pair  footed  it  so  beautifully  that 
all  confessed  their  peers  were  far  to  find,  and  pairs 
that  could  outmatch  them  nowhere — till  the  next 
two  took  the  floor  and,  curtseying  to  the  fiddlers, 
called  their  tune,  and  started  in  to  shame  them 
that  had  sat  down.  And  every  other  couple  won 
such  cheering  as  made  the  rafters  crack,  till  it 
would  take  cooler-headed,  colder-hearted  people 
than  any  there  that  night  to  say  which  pair  was 
beaten. 

And  'twas  then  yourself  and  Molly,  both  of  you 

[61] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

mighty  shy  indeed,  and  Molly  blushing  like  a 
poppy-field,  stood  up,  and,  hand  in  hand,  bowed  to 
the  fiddlers,  while  the  house  caught  its  breath.  And, 
to  the  notes  of  "The  Geese  in  the  Bog,"  both  of 
you  were  next  minute  footing  it  so  fleetly  that 
there  wasn't  any  more  doubt  who  should  win  the 
night's  laurels.  Though  you  tell  it  yourself,  who 
maybe  shouldn't,  you  will  say  that  you  with  your 
own  proud  steps  and  Molly  with  her  unmatchable 
dainty  ones,  her  feet  twinkling  like  the  wimples  in 
the  river,  cut  a  copy  which  the  boys  and  girls  of 
Knockagar  would  long  remember.  And  down  you 
sat,  happy-hearted  both,  beneath  your  load  of  fame. 
Little  you  dreamt  that  there  was  better  dancer 
than  you  in  the  barn — just  waiting  to  shame  you 
— and  a  fleeter  foot  than  Molly's.  'Twas  little  at 
that  moment  any  mortal  there  suspected  it.  But 
you  weren't  well  seated,  and  everyone  wringing  the 
arms  of  the  two  of  you,  when  a  shout  of  delight 
went  up  that  startled  you,  and  you  beheld  your 
father  leading  out  Molly's  mother — the  pair  o' 
them  beginning  with  a  bow  to  the  fiddlers  that 
hadn't  been  beaten  that  night !  And  when,  to  the 
tune  of  "Tatther  Jack  Walsh,"  they  ran  the  reel 
like  youngsters,  and  leathered  the  floor  like  nine- 
teen, your  father  grown  lithe  as  a  rowan  tree  and 
with  head  every  inch  as  high,  and  Molly's  mother's 
eyes  star-bright  while  her  feet  went  twinkle !  twin- 

[62] 


YOUR   WEDDIN' 

kle !  the  way  they  used  to  forty  years  ago,  and  the 
barnful  roared  their  delight,  the  old  ones  crowing 
for  triumph,  and  shaking  their  sticks  in  the  air 
ready  for  a  scrap — you  had  to  confess  (and  no 
thanks  to  you)  that  the  palm  had  gone  from  you, 
and  that  this  night  after  all  was  the  night  of  the 
youths  of  three  score.  They  who  had  congratulated 
you  now  sympathized  with  you.  And  they  wrung 
the  hands  of  your  father  and  Molly's  mother  till 
their  wrists  ached,  and  slapped  them  on  the  backs 
till  they  nigh  broke  their  hearts.  And  your  father 
and    Molly's    mother    proclaimed    to    the    house: 

'Twould  be  a  low-come-down  day  with  us  when 
we'd  sit  by  and  see  our  own  childer  best  us."  Add- 
ing, to  the  exultation  of  the  old  and  the  resignation 
of  the  young:  "But  sure  small  blame  to  the  young- 
sters: there's  no  dancin'  nowadays  like  the  dancin' 
used  to  be,"  while  everyone  of  their  compeers  said, 
as  they  shook  their  gray  hairs:  "Faith,  and  them's 
true  words."  Still  you  were  only  too  pleased  to 
give  the  palm  publicly  to  them  who'd  proved  them- 
selves your  betters  by  leagues. 

Both  Molly  and  yourself  were  mighty  proud  of 
this,  the  wqnderfulest  wedding  that  ever  was  wit- 
nessed. Peadar  Dall,  the  blind  piper,  in  all  serious- 
ness told  you  that  he'd  never  played  over  a  finer- 
looking  floorful.  And  Phil  the  Fiddler  said  that, 
though  he  had  been  scraping  the  fiddle  strings  for 

[63] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

nigh  sixty  years,  he  never  looked  over  a  prouder 
lot  of  boys  and  a  modester,  winsomer  gathering  of 
girls,  or  a  creditabler  crowd  of  old  and  young  alike, 
than  he  now  had  the  privilege  and  pleasure  of  ob- 
serving. 

"  'Tis  a  proud  pair  you  ought  to  be  in  troth," 
said  Terry  MacGowran.  "If  I  was  guaranteed  such 
a  weddin',  I'd  marry  the  morra  meself,  nor  bother 
who'd  be  the  bride."  And  the  youngsters  of  four 
score,  sitting  around  the  walls,  and  thrilling  like 
two  and  twenty,  assured  you  that,  though  they 
went  to  weddings  since  they  were  that  high,  bound 
they  were  to  confess  that  they'd  never  known  a  rale 
wedding  before.  And  the  youngest  in  the  room 
told  you  he'd  brag  of  this  night  to  his  grand- 
children. 

The  gray  of  the  morning  had  come  and  gone  be- 
fore your  friends,  after  blessing  the  both  of  you, 
and  praying  more  prayers  for  your  future  than 
would  consecrate  a  church,  set  out  for  their  homes 
happy-hearted,  and  singing  against  the  birds  of  the 
morning. 

But  the  song  of  the  birds  of  the  morning, 
though  it  was  never  sweeter,  was  like  the  crows' 
cawing  compared  with  the  song  that  was  sing- 
ing in  your  heart  and  Molly's,  now  that  you  faced 
the  world  as  one. 

[64] 


WHEN   A    MAN'S    MARRIED 

IV.  WHEN  A  MAN'S  MARRIED 

On  the  next  Sunday — Bride's  Sunday — a  throng 
of  the  girls  whom  your  bride  had  bidden,  and 
a  throng  of  the  boys  whom  you  had  asked 
to  the  wedding,  came  to  do  their  duty  by  ac- 
companying you  to  Frosses  chapel.  Yourself  and 
your  bride,  and  the  best  man  and  the  best  maid 
walked  in  front,  and  your  gathered  friends  brought 
up  the  rear.  In  the  flagged  chapel  yard  all  the 
world  waited  to  see  you.  And  under  all  the  world's 
eyes  you  walked  very  straight  and  proud,  and 
Molly  walked  modest  and  blushing  and  shy.  And 
all  the  world  praised  the  pair  o'  ye  again — and 
agreed  that  no  comelier  pair  had  ever  walked  the 
flags  o'  Frosses. 

After  chapel  the  bridesmaid  brought  you  to  her 
house  for  her  treat — dinner,  tea,  and  the  spending 
of  the  evening.  And  from  that  time  forward  you 
were  as  busy  as  nailers  attending  treats  given  in 
your  honour  by  all  the  nearer  friends  and  relations 
of  you  both.  The  pair  of  you  were  now  the  pets  of 
the  parish,  and  your  outgoings  and  incomings 
formed  the  fashionable  intelligence  of  the  country- 
side. 

Three  months  afterwards,  however,  there  was 
another  wedding — a  new  bride  and  groom  were 
given  the  parish  to  play  with — and  Molly  and  you, 

[65] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

almost  petted  beyond  usefulness  and  feasted  to  sur- 
feit, were  now  relegated  to  the  ranks  of  the  old 
married  couples,  and  settled  down,  thankfully 
enough  indeed,  to  the  new  life  and  new  conditions. 

You  worked  your  little  farm  early  and  late,  and 
came  home  in  the  evenings  to  a  happy  fireside. 
You  had  peace,  plenty,  and  content — and  a  wife 
beyond  compare.  By-and-bye,  when  there  was  mul- 
tiplication in  the  mouths  that  had  to  be  fed,  you 
felt  for  the  first  time  the  limitations  of  your  farm. 
Then,  to  supplement  its  profits,  you  began  taking 
an  occasional  day's  work  from  some  farmer  in  the 
neighbourhood — a  large  farmer  who  owned  twelve 
or  fifteen  acres.  Returned  from  doing  his  work, 
you  stole  a  couple  of  hours  of  the  night  to  devote 
to  your  own  little  patch. 

By-and-bye,  again,  when  the  increase  in  mouths 
was  putting  the  multiplication  table  out  of 
joint,  and  you  began  getting  more  and  more 
deeply  into  the  books  of  the  meal-man — a  pound 
or  even  more  in  his  debt, — you  felt  the  time 
had  now  come  when  you  must  go  and  cut  the 
Scotch  harvest.  So,  after  leaving  everything  trig 
and  snug,  and  all  your  crops  growing  grandly, 
and  taking  from  Molly  the  red  bundle  she 
had  done  up  for  you,  and  kissing  her  good-bye, 
and  putting  a  hook  (sickle)  under  your  arm,  you 
joined  the  throng  of  men  who  came  down  the  road 

[66] 


WHEN   A    MAN'S    MARRIED 

one  summer  morning  early,  and  with  them  walked 
the  forty  Irish  miles  to  the  port  of  Derry.  A  few 
shillings  brought  you  to  Scotland,  where  the  har- 
vest, so  much  earlier  than  yours,  was  already  wait- 
ing for  you,  and  where  the  big  Scotch  farmers  had, 
for  ten  days  past,  been  watching  for  you — for  the 
thousands  of  you  who  reaped  the  harvest  for  them 
every  year.  All  of  your  squad  were  engaged  by 
one  big  farmer,  passably  well  fed,  and  given  plenty 
of  clean  sweet  straw  to  sleep  on  in  his  empty  barns. 
And,  after  five  weeks'  reaping  of  Scotland's  har- 
vest, you  faced  home  again  with  four  pounds  in 
your  pocket,  over  and  above  the  few  shillings  neces- 
sary to  pay  your  fare. 

While  you  were  away,  Molly  and  the  children 
had  tended  the  crops  at  home  and  done  to  them 
everything  that  was  needed.  So,  your  own  harvest 
was  waiting  for  your  sickle  when  you  returned.  As 
Molly  and  you  were  unaccustomed  to  the  ways  of 
correspondence,  no  letters  whatsoever  had  passed 
between  you  while  you  were  among  the  black  stran- 
gers. But,  because  of  the  big  gulf  of  silence,  all 
the  gladder  was  your  greeting.  You  paid  off  your 
debts,  and  bought  a  calf  for  the  balance.  And 
Molly  and  you  thanked  God,  saying  you  would 
never  more  be  poor. 

It  was  on  the  night  of  your  return  from  the 
Scotch  harvest  that  you  discussed  with  Molly  a  sub- 

[67] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

ject  that  had  much  occupied  your  mind  during  the 
weary  weeks  you  walked  among  the  alien  corn — 
namely,  what  you  were  going  to  do  with  the  chil- 
dren, God  bless  them !  At  present  five  of  them 
were  attending  school  in  the  little  thatched  school- 
house  to  which  yourself  had  gone;  but  it  was  pain- 
fully plain  to  you  both  that,  as  soon  as  they  could 
profitably  help  at  home  or  be  hired  abroad,  their 
school  days  must  come  to  a  close.  The  prospect 
wasn't  a  pleasant  one — but  there  it  was!  One  hope 
which  your  hearts  had  cherished — even  before  the 
first  arrived — was  that  one  of  the  priceless  ones 
God  gave  you  might  be  consecrated  to  Him,  and 
that  your  last  years  might  be  lightened  and  your 
grey  heads  held  high,  for  that  a  son  of  yours,  from 
God's  altar,  spread  his  hands  in  blessing  over 
bowed  congregations.  And  when  the  first  boy 
came,  both  of  you  had  fervently  besought  God  to 
aid  you  in  what  would  be,  for  the  time  to  come, 
your  one  great  ambition — the  making  of  a  priest 
out  of  Patrick.  On  this  night  in  question  Molly 
and  yourself,  clasping  hands,  looked  up  to  God  and 
said  that,  with  His  holy  help,  your  great  hope 
should  surely  be  fulfilled.  You  agreed  that  care, 
attention  and  solicitude  should  be  centred  upon  Pat- 
rick; that  he  should  never  miss  a  day  from  school; 
and  that,  on  getting  home  again,  when  the  remain- 
der of  the  children  would  go  to  do  their  part  in 

[68] 


WHEN   A   MAN'S    MARRIED 

the  fields,  no  coarse  work  should  fall  to  Patrick's 
lot:  books  and  the  comfort  of  the  chimney  corner 
should  be  his.  It  would  be  a  tough  struggle,  you 
knew,  to  put  him  through  college  and  find  the  great 
sum  of  money  that  would  be  wanted  to  finance  him 
there — full  fifty  pounds  a  year,  you  were  sure.  But, 
with  God's  help  always,  it  would  be  done.  Molly 
would  rear  more  hens  and  ducks  and  geese,  and 
strive  to  keep  another  cow,  and  all  of  you  would 
go  without  the  luxury  of  butter  henceforth,  and  the 
extravagance  of  eggs — except,  of  course,  on  Easter 
Sunday.  Herself  would  work  extra  hard,  early  and 
late,  and  in  spare  moments  spin  another  hank  of 
yarn,  or  take  up  her  sprigging-hoops  and  embroider 
a  robe  or  a  bed-cover  that  would  win  her  several 
shillings.  You,  too,  would  double  your  working, 
and  cut  down  your  tobacco  and  manage  a  few 
weeks  more  of  each  season  at  cuttin'  the  Scotch 
harvest.  And  little  Jimmy,  Johneen  Og  and  Larry 
would,  in  another  couple  of  years,  be  fit  for  hiring 
out  as  herds  in  the  rich  country  thirty  miles  away, 
and,  a  few  years  later,  as  able-bodied  servants  to 
the  big  farmers.  So,  when  the  time  should  come 
for  Patrick  to  begin  his  colleging,  Molly  would 
have  a  brave  penny  in  the  stocking  indeed.  Thence- 
forward, too,  the  boys  would  be  earning  more  and 
more.  So  that,  please  Heaven,  the  ambition  of 
your  lives  was  certain  of  fulfilment. 

[69] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

Molly  was  a  capital  housekeeper,  anyhow.  It 
was  her  proud  boast  that  she  was  the  best  butter- 
maker  in  the  parish.  The  parish  had  to  agree  with 
her:  for  they  all  knew  that  she  got  a  ha'penny  a 
pound  more  for  her  butter  than  any  other  woman 
entering  Donegal  market.  And,  off  the  two  cows 
which  she  used  to  keep,  she  was  able  to  bring  to  the 
market  more  butter  than  most  women  who  kept 
three.  She  was  frugal  and  taught  her  frugality  to 
the  children.  Yet  did  you  all  get  your  fill  of  good, 
nourishing,  appetizing  food — oatmeal  stirabout 
with  lashings  and  leavings  of  buttermilk  for  break- 
fast, and  for  dinner  a  pot  of  fine  floury  potatoes 
that,  when  spread  steaming  on  the  table,  were 
laughing  through  their  jackets  at  you,  and  calling 
to  you  to  come  on.  Sometimes  Molly  could  afford 
you  even  a  fine  bowl  of  buttermilk  to  kitchen  the 
potatoes,  and  always  plenty  of  salt — oftentimes 
pepper  too.  At  Christmas  and  Easter  you  had 
fowl.  You  still,  in  fact,  ate  just  as  well  as  several 
of  the  neighbours,  and  yet  managed  to  save  money. 
At  night,  for  supper,  you  had  potatoes  again — the 
sweetest  ever  a  man  put  tooth  in,  lashings  and  leav- 
ings of  them.  On  Sunday  evenings  you  got  a  tea 
supper — and  maybe,  for  each,  a  slice  of  white  bread 
from  the  town.  For  a  rarity  you  got  that  greatest 
gift  of  God  to  epicurean  man — boxty-bread,  made 
from  the  ever-loved  potato  by  a  tedious  and  labori- 

[70] 


WHEN   A   MAN'S    MARRIED 

ous  process.  It  was  a  longed-for  luxury,  beside 
which  even  the  charms  of  baker's  bread  sank  into 
insignificance.  By  spinning,  knitting,  and  sprigging 
in  her  spare  hours,  Molly  was  able  herself  to  pro- 
vide the  little  flour,  tea,  sugar,  and  other  small 
items  that  must  be  purchased  from  the  shop.  The 
potatoes,  oatmeal  and  milk,  the  staple  foods,  were 
provided  by  yourselves;  the  butter  and  the  eggs, 
and  the  pig  and  the  calves  that  were  sold,  not 
merely  paid  the  rent,  the  cut,  and  the  poor-rate, 
and  the  priest's  Christmas  stipend  (a  small  four 
shillings)  and  supplied  you  with  clothes  and  boots, 
but  also  periodically  furnished  an  important  incre- 
ment for  the  hoard  in  the  stocking.  All  the  wage- 
income  went  into  the  stocking  unbroken.  And 
when  at  last  came  that  great  day  of  mingled  sor- 
row and  joy  when  Patrick,  with  his  lean  carpet-bag, 
set  out  for  college,  the  stocking  was  bursting. 

Of  clothes  and  shoes  you  didn't  need  much.  But 
at  the  beginning  of  every  winter  you  had  the  tailor, 
with  his  goose  and  lapboard,  come  to  your  house 
for  a  week,  and  fit  the  family  in  what  they  needed. 
And  you  had  the  shoemaker  for  a  week,  too.  These 
you  usually  fetched  to  your  house  after  your  year's 
work  was  ended,  and  the  haggard  filled  with  hay, 
and  your  mind  filled  with  peace.  As  the  neigh- 
bours had  idle-set  then  also,  your  house  was  the 
country's   great   gathering-place  while   tailor   and 

[7i] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

shoemaker  worked  in  it.  It  emptied  not  from  ten 
in  the  morning  till  midnight.  There  were  seldom 
less  than  sixteen  or  more  than  sixty  of  the  neigh- 
bours with  you.  Seated  in  a  circle  around  the  tail- 
or's board  or  the  shoemaker's  bench,  they  discussed 
all  subjects  under  the  sun — in  particular,  the  new- 
est hopes  for  poor  Ireland.  The  shoemaker  and 
the  tailor  were  the  politicians,  of  course,  of  the 
countryside.  They  bought  The  Nation  every  week, 
and  read  it  from  the  first  word  at  the  top  left-hand 
corner  of  the  front  page  to  the  last  word  at  the  bot- 
tom right-hand  corner  of  the  back  page — and  could 
almost  repeat  by  heart  the  Leader's  latest  magnifi- 
cent speech.  For  the  shoemaker  and  the  tailor  had 
most  marvellous  memory,  particularly  for  matters 
patriotic. 

The  houses  of  the  shoemaker  and  the  tailor,  too, 
when  these  worthies  were  not  working  for  you  or 
your  neighbour,  were  the  great  gathering-places  of 
the  countryside.  During  the  day  the  cheery  forge, 
maybe,  outdid  them.  The  ring  of  the  anvil,  the 
glow  of  the  flying  sparks,  the  roar  of  the  fire,  and 
the  sight  of  someone  else  sweating  while  you  lolled 
in  lazy  luxury — were  all  most  sweet  to  a  man  who 
seldom  tasted  sweets.  After  night,  though,  the 
sociability  and  neighbourliness  and  delightfulness 
of  the  circle  of  "Rakers"  who  foregathered  in  the 
tailor's  and  in  the  shoemaker's  enticed  you.     That 

[72] 


WHEN   A   MAN'S    MARRIED 

was  your  chief  recreation.  On  Sunday,  of  course, 
for  the  three-mile  journey  to  chapel,  through  bog 
and  moor,  you  relaxed  with  the  group  of  neigh- 
bours with  whom  you  walked — or  ran  when  you 
found  the  last  bell  ringing,  and  you  not  yet  past 
Paddy  McNeely's  mearin'. 

And  the  neighbours  were  neighbourly  in  the  tru- 
est sense.  In  fact,  you  were  all  the  one  family. 
You  sorrowed  together,  one  with  another,  if  a  poor 
man's  cow  died;  and  again  you  all  rejoiced  for 
the  joy  of  one.  Any  implement  or  convenience  that 
you  had  for  facilitating  farm  work  was  always  at 
the  call  of  any  neighbour  who  needed  it.  And 
when  a  big  day's  work  must  be  done — the  taking 
in  of  your  hay,  or  the  getting  home  of  your  turf — 
you  just  put  out  the  word  in  a  general  sort  of  way, 
and  a  dozen  kindly  neighbours  came  with  the  day- 
break, and  everyone  of  them  worked  for  two.  That 
was  one  of  the  times  at  which  Molly  was  lavish — 
gave  tea  after  breakfast,  a  fish  dinner,  and  tea  and 
baker's  bread  after  supper.  To  the  poor  widow- 
woman  who  was  left  with  large  care  on  her  hands, 
and  with  small  means,  you  all  gathered  occasion- 
ally, in  a  tneithil,  to  give  a  great  day's  work — set- 
ting or  sowing,  turf-cutting  or  reaping. 

When  dread  Death  visited  Cornamona  and 
claimed  one  or  other  of  you,  all  men  dropped  their 
spades  in  reverent  sympathy  with  the  family  that 

[73] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

was  afflicted,  and,  however  pressing  were  the  crops' 
needs,  none  lifted  spade  or  rake  again  till  you  had 
seen  the  green  sod  drawn  over  poor  Micky,  or 
little  Mary,  as  the  case  might  be.  The  ties  of 
neighbourly  love  that  bound  you  all  were  worthy 
of  a  better  world. 

The  neighbours  all  rejoiced  with  you,  of  course, 
in  the  wonderful  speed  little  Patrick  was  making  at 
college.  And  when  they  said  the  Rosary  at  night, 
they  always  put  up  a  prayer — one  of  many  trim- 
mings— for  God  to  bless  the  brave  boy  and  keep 
him  in  His  care  and  speed  him  towards  the  grand 
goal  for  which  he  bravely  struggled.  Never-end 
ing  were  the  prayers  of  Molly  and  yourself  for  the 
same  object.  Your  Rosary  was  never  wound  up, 
during  years  and  years,  without  five  Paters  and 
Aves  being  chorused  for  God's  blessing  on  the 
young  hero  sixty  miles  away. 

In  your  house,  as  in  all  the  houses,  the  Rosary 
was  recited  nightly  by  the  whole  household,  kneel- 
ing in  a  circle.  Molly  made  you  lead  it,  while  she 
and  the  children  devoutly  chorused  response.  The 
Rosary  hour  was  a  peaceful  hour,  and  it  brought 
you  all  very  near  indeed  to  God.  The  hum  of  the 
Rosary  was  sweet  and  beautiful  to  those  who,  pass- 
ing the  way,  uncovered  their  heads  in  reverence, 
and  felt  they  were  treading  sacred  ground  while 
still  that  music  was  in  their  ears.     Although  you 

[74] 


WHEN   A   MAN'S    MARRIED 

led  the  Rosary,  Molly  could  never  trust  you  with 
the  trimmings.  These,  Herself  always  did  take 
charge  of.  For  'twas  she,  and  she  alone,  who 
knew  how  to  pour  out  the  heartfelt  poetic  petition 
which  prefaced  each  Pater  and  Ave  asking  for 
benefits  spiritual  and  temporal  for  yourselves  and 
your  friends  and  neighbours,  and  for  all  the  world 
— and  an  especial  petition  for  all  poor  sinners  who 
had  no  one  to  pray  for  them.  Lucky,  indeed,  was 
the  mortal  who  was  particularized  in  Molly's  pray- 
ers. Blessed  were  all  who  shared  with  your  house- 
hold the  fruits  of  the  nightly  Rosary. 

Molly  had  a  deal  of  concern  caring  for  the 
children;  but  with  a  heart-broken  sigh  she  had 
to  confess  that  you  were  ten  times  more 
bother  than  the  helpless  baby.  You  were  a 
great  worry  to  her,  entirely.  It  took  a  deal 
of  trouble  and  pains  on  her  part  to  keep 
you  neat,  and  trig,  and  a  credit  to  her  house- 
wifery— especially  when  she  was  trigging  you  up 
for  fair  or  market,  or  fitting  you  out  for  chapel. 
It  took  a  deal  of  time  and  trouble  to  brush  your 
coat  and  to  shine  your  brogues  so  that  you  might 
see  yourself  in  them  (for  'twas  a  disgrace  how  you 
did  your  shoes)  ;  to  button  the  white  shirt  front 
and  fix  it  and  the  shirt-cuffs,  so  that  every  other 
man's  wife  in  the  parish  might  marvel  at  your 
wife's  skill  in  starching;  to  put  on  your  collar  for 

[75] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

you,  and  tie  under  your  chin  that  flowing  bow- 
knot  whose  manipulation  was  always  an  unfath- 
omable mystery  to  you,  and  whose  ends  ever  threat- 
ened to  trip  you.  And  when,  at  length,  she  turned 
you  out  of  doors  dressed,  she  took  care  to  let  you 
know  you  were  a  heart-scald.  Yet  you,  callous  fel- 
low, smiled — for  you  knew  that,  if  you  were  so 
mean  as  to  look  over-shoulder,  you  would  catch  her 
watching  after  you  with  a  pride  that  glowed  in  her 
eyes. 

If  'twas  going  to  the  market  or  fair  you  were, 
she  overtook  you  before  you  were  half  a  mile  gone, 
herself  now  dressed — and  looking  a  picture  too, — 
and  took  charge  of  you  thenceforward.  She 
guided  you  to  every  place  where  you  had  business 
to  do  and,  with  the  exception  of  buying  and  selling 
animals,  did  it  for  you.  For,  of  course,  you  could- 
n't be  trusted  to  do  the  triflingest  thing  for  yourself 
without  bungling.  Or,  if  you  didn't  bungle,  then 
at  least  the  sharp  ones  were  sure  to  take  you  in. 
She  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  only  when,  untying  her 
bonnet-strings  and  enumerating  the  pitfalls  and 
swindles  from  which  she  had  snatched  you,  she  saw 
you  safely  seated  in  your  own  chimney  corner — 
from  which  you  should  never  stir  without  guidance. 
You  inwardly  thanked  Heaven  for  the  wonderful 
woman  entirely  it  had  given  you,  while  you  dis- 
tributed fairlies  from  your  pockets  to  the  strug- 

[76] 


WHEN   A   MAN'S    MARRIED 

gling  mass  of  young  humanity  and  hu-woman-ity 
who,  in  desperate  battle  around  your  knees,  almost 
threatened  to  tear  you  limb  from  limb. 

Yourself  and  Molly  religiously  observed,  and  in 
your  children  put  respect  for  all  the  old  customs 
and  all  the  old  festivals.  On  the  fifth  day  of  Jan- 
uary you  feasted  the  children  in  honour  of  Old 
Christmas  Eve.  On  the  first  day  of  February  you 
observed  the  feast  of  St.  Brigid,  bringing  in  with 
pious  and  dramatic  ceremony  the  bundle  of  rushes, 
placing  them  under  the  table  while  the  family 
supped  a  special  supper,  and  then  plaiting  from 
them  beautiful  St.  Brigid's  Crosses  which  were 
stuck  above  every  bed  and  every  door  in  your  dwell- 
ing house,  and  above  the  doors  of  your  cattle- 
houses,  to  keep  from  ban  and  blight,  for  twelve 
months  to  come,  all  living  things  that  slept  or 
passed  beneath.  On  May  Eve  you  taught  the  chil- 
dren to  gather  the  May  flowers  and  with  them 
strew  the  door-steps  and  window-sills  in  festive  of- 
ferings; and  you  took  great  care  upon  that  day  to 
give  no  offence  direct  or  indirect  to  the  Gentle 
People,  who,  all  invisible,  were  then  plentifully 
around  you.  On  Bonfire  Night,  with  the  sacred 
fire  you  circled  cattle  and  crops.  On  Hallow  Eve 
night  you  enjoyed  the  greatest  feast  of  the  year. 
And,  two  nights  later,  on  All  Souls'  Night,  the  one 
night  during  which  the  souls  of  your  dead  kith 

[77] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

and  kin  who  suffered  in  Purgatory  were  allowed  to 
come  again  to  the  homes  and  haunts  and  the  dear 
ones  they  loved,  your  household  at  bedtime  recited 
the  Long  Rosary  for  the  relief  of  their  suffering. 
And  when  the  children  went  to  bed,  Molly  cleaned 
and  swept  and  tidied  the  house,  as  she  would 
against  the  coming  of  any  honoured  visitor — 
brushing  up  the  hearth  and  piling  high  a  bright- 
blazing  fire,  and  setting  chairs  and  stools  in  circle 
around  it,  for  them  who  would  come  at  midnight, 
and  be  gladdened  to  see  that  the  living  were  still 
lovingly  mindful  of  them. 

You  had  no  dowry  to  put  on  your  one  daughter 
Una ;  yet  when  Neill  McGrath,  a  brave  boy  from 
the  next  parish,  owning  a  comfortable  farm,  came 
to  ask  her  and  got  her  with  your  blessing  and 
Molly's,  he  considered  that  he  got  great  dowry 
with  her  in  the  gifts  and  graces  that  God  and  na- 
ture had  given  her,  and  in  the  skill  in  spinning, 
knitting,  butter-making  and  housekeeping  which 
Molly,  the  best  manager  in  the  parish,  had  culti- 
vated in  her.  And  Neill  was  right,  too.  Your 
son  Larry,  now  come  to  young  manhood,  had 
placed  his  affections  on  a  next-door  neighbour's 
daughter  and  got  a  farm  and  fortune  with  her, 
though  he,  on  his  part,  had  nothing  to  offer  only  a 
clean  heart,  a  fine  frame,  and  a  pair  of  brave  and 
willing  hands, 

[78] 


EVENING'S    QUIET   END 

Jimmy  would  very  soon  take  passage  for  Amer- 
ica ;  while  Johneen  Og,  who  helped  you  at  home, 
would  heir  the  farm  and  wouldn't  marry  for  five 
or  six  years  yet — till  all  the  others  were  settled 
and  "done  for."  Patrick,  brave  boy,  was  now 
nearing  the  goal  for  which  he  had  so  long  striven, 
and  to  which  you  had  so  long  looked  forward,  and 
for  which  you  had  so  well,  and  worthily,  and  un- 
tiringly worked. 

At  last,  on  that  blessed  and  memorable  morn- 
ing on  which,  in  Frosses  chapel,  you  saw  him  in  his 
golden,  gleaming  robes,  turn  to  the  congregation, 
and,  a  light  from  heaven  shining  on  his  fair  young 
face,  spread  his  arms  above  the  bent  multitude, 
saying  solemnly  "Dominus  Vobiscum,"  yourself 
and  Molly,  kneeling  amid  hundreds  of  other 
hushed  ones,  took  hands  underneath  her  shawl, 
and,  your  eyes  running  tears,  together  bowed 
heads  and  hearts  before  God  in  soulful  gratitude 
for  that  this  day  had  crowned  your  married  life 
with  its  crowning  joy. 

V.  EVENING'S  QUIET  END 

But  'tis  now  a  long  cry  back  to  that  glorious 
day  of  Patrick's  ordination,  when  your  married 
life  was  crowned  with  its  crowning  joy — yours  and 
Molly's. 

[79] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

You  were  only  just  in  your  prime  at  sixty — 
both  Yourself  and  Herself.  And,  even  at  seventy 
you  were  still  a  brave,  hardy  couple,  every  bit 
as  young  as  the  youngest  of  them.  And 
you  showed  it  to  them,  too,  the  pair  of  you, 
at  the  christening  at  Parrah  Mor's,  when,  dis- 
gusted with  looking  at  the  young  people  of 
nowadays  thinking  they  were  dancing,  you  swept 
the  loiterers  from  the  floor  in  your  righteous 
wrath,  and  leading  out  Molly  as  cavalierly  as  you 
had  done  on  that  very  same  floor  half  a  century 
before,  showed  them  what  real  dancing  was,  and 
only  sat  down  when  the  fiddler,  crying  "mercy," 
let  his  paralyzed  arm  drop  to  his  side.  The  speed 
of  the  dance  brought  the  blush  to  Molly's  cheek 
again  and  the  gleam  to  her  eye;  and,  looking  at 
her,  with  her  head  tossed  back  and  skirts  held 
gracefully,  while  her  feet  went  twinkle,  you  just 
saw  the  fresh-lipped  cailin  who  half  a  century  be- 
fore had  proudly  paraded  with  you  the  Harvest 
Fair  of  Glenties.  And  when  the  fiddler  collapsed, 
you  took  young  Molly  Gilbride  in  your  arms  and 
gave  her  a  hearty  kiss,  while  the  thunderous  ap- 
plause threatened  to  bring  the  rafters  down!  By 
the  hand,  again  cavalierly,  you  led  the  radiant 
Molly  to  her  seat,  and  made  her  your  best  bow, 
and  announced  for  the  benefit  of  the  nervous,  beard- 
less boys:     "There's  a  copy  cut  for  ye,  lads.     Fol- 

[80] 


EVENING'S    QUIET    END 

low  it,  first  and  last !"  But  they  daren't  do  either, 
for  the  house  now  scorned  them,  unworthy  of  the 
traditions  of  their  fathers.  Thenceforward  it  was 
a  night  jubilant  and  boisterous  for  the  frisky  young- 
sters of  three  and  four  score.  And  you  and 
Molly,  having  done  your  part,  sat  around  the  walls 
with  old-time  comrades  comparing  historical  notes, 
enthusing  over  long-gone  days  and  deeds  that  were, 
and  lamenting  the  pitiable  little  men  and  women 
whom  Providence  had  now  provided  for  filling 
your  shoes — the  tops  of  which  they  could  barely 
see  over!  'Twas  sad  and  sad!  But,  somehow,  it 
was  a  sort  of  sadness  that  brought  with  it  inward 
elation,  even  if  outward  depression. 

No  matter.  Yourself  and  Herself,  as  I  said, 
were  a  brave,  handsome  couple  at  seventy.  And 
no  one  ever  even  mentioned  age  to  you  till  you 
passed  your  four-score  mark.  Indeed  you  had 
never  dreamt  that  age  could  come  to  you :  for  both 
of  you,  somehow,  as  you  did  your  share  of  work  at 
seventy-five  and  seventy-eight,  unwittingly  took  it 
for  granted  that  you  were  children  of  Tir  nan 
Oig*  Molly  still  spun,  and  milked,  and  washed, 
carried  great  pots  of  potatoes  to  and  from  the  fire, 
and  tripped  like  the  gayest  of  them  six  miles  to  the 
market  with  her  basket  of  eggs  on  Saturday.    You 

*The  Land  of  Everlasting  Youth — the  Gaelic  paradise. 

[81] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

were  yet  able  to  give  a  lead  to  the  most  conceited 
young  fellow  of  them  all  at  the  potato-setting  or 
the  turf-cutting  or  mowing  of  the  hay. 

Curious  it  was  how  the  old  age  called  on  you  at 
last.  'Twas  on  a  Saturday  night,  after  you  had 
returned  from  your  twelve  Irish  miles'  walking 
and  jumping  to  and  from  the  Donegal  market. 
You  had  got  up  extra  early  that  morning,  of  course, 
and  done  your  day's  work  back-loading  manure  to 
the  South  Park  before  you  gaily  took  the  hills  for 
the  town.  There  was  a  bit  of  a  "halt"  on  you,  you 
thought,  as  you  returned  from  the  market;  but 
when  you  sat  down  in  your  own  chimney-corner  you 
stiffened  entirely.  Neill  Moran  was  there  to  learn 
from  you  how  the  markets  went;  and  to  Neill  you 
remarked  that  you  didn't  know  from  Adam  what 
the  stiffness  was  in  your  legs  the  night.  Says  Neill, 
says  he:  "I'll  hould  you  a  bad  ha'penny  'tis  'the 
age,'  Johneen.  You  know  you  turned  the  frosty 
side  of  four-score  a  while  back."  Your  first  im- 
pulse was  to  grip  hold  of  your  stick,  and  smash  a 
handful  of  Neill's  ribs  for  him.  But  that  wouldn't 
have  been  hospitable  in  your  own  house.  You  only 
said  some  caustic  things,  and  let  him  know  'twas 
ill  his  coming  to  your  own  house  to  insult  you. 
And  poor  Neill  went  away  much  mortified,  and  all 
apology. 

But  when  you  thought   it  over  as  you  tossed 

[82] 


EVENING'S    QUIET   END 

sleepless  through  the  night,  and  found  yourself,  on 
getting  up  in  the  morning,  far  from  as  nimble  as 
you  used  to  be,  it  struck  you  that  there  might  be 
something  in  what  Neill  said  after  all.  Molly,  that 
night,  confessed  to  you  as  you  talked  the  matter 
over  that,  in  troth,  she  had  been  feeling  a  bit  stiff ish 
herself  after  coming  home.  Old  Terry  McMullan 
dropped  in  on  Sunday  night  for  to  borrow  from 
you  the  loan  of  a  harrow,  which  he  and  his  little 
grandson  were  going  to  pull  the  next  day  on  the 
hazel-brae  (because  it  was  too  steep  and  difficult 
for  a  donkey).  With  Terry's  aid  you  plunged 
into  chronology,  and  calculated  that,  as  you  were 
just  five  years  of  age  the  Night  of  the  Big  Wind, 
and  as  Molly  was  born  midway  between  the  Day 
of  the  Straws  and  the  night  the  Sickymoor-tree  fell 
at  Tom  Kerrigan's,  you  must  be  all  of  four-score 
years  and  five,  and  Molly  just  three  more  than 
four-score — barring  a  month  more  or  less.  "Well ! 
well!"  you  at  length  conceded,  "I  suppose  myself 
and  Molly  must  be  wearin'  on  in  years,  after  all." 
And  Terry  McMullan  sided:  "Faith,  Johneen, 
'tisn't  younger  either  of  you'll  be  gettin'  from  this 
out."  Both  Molly  and  yourself  nodded  grave 
acquiescence.  When  you  closed  the  door  on  Terry 
that  night,  and  went  back  with  a  sigh  and  took 
your  seat  and  your  pipe  in  the  chimney  corner,  op- 
posite to  Molly,  who  was  gazing  into  the  fire,  you 

[83] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

were  an  old  man  looking  across  at  an  old  woman, 
sure  enough ! 

Well,  God  be  thankit  for  His  blessings  and  His 
mercies !  Sure  you  had  your  day,  and  it  was  a 
good  day  and  a  full  one.  Why  should  you  not  now 
make  way  for  your  youngers  and  betters?  Molly 
and  yourself,  brave  hearts  ever,  were  quickly  recon- 
ciled to  the  new  aspect  of  things.  Moreover,  Old 
Age,  when  ye  got  used  to  the  thought,  wasn't  such 
a  terror  after  all  as  it  had  looked  at  the  first  blush, 
the  night  Neill  Moran  threw  it  in  your  face.  It 
had  its  compensations — its  own  joys  and  gratifica- 
tions. Henceforward,  extra  care  was  bestowed  on 
you,  extra  respect  tendered  to  you.  You  had  your 
pipe  and  your  ease  in  your  own  chimney  corner 
when  you  chose;  and  Molly  her  ease  and  her  snuff- 
box in  the  opposite  corner.  But  you  didn't  always 
choose  this.  For  the  most  part,  you  fought  Old 
Age  a  good,  stiff,  stand-up  fight,  for  you  weren't 
the  build  of  a  man  who  could  bear  to  drop  his 
hands  to  his  side  while  still  a  splank  of  the  old  fire 
remained  unquenched.  You  still  went  to  the  field, 
spade  over  shoulder  or  scythe  on  arm,  and  worked 
foot  for  foot  with  the  youngest  of  them.  Only, 
you  didn't  now  go  out  till  after  breakfast,  and 
during  the  day  you  had  more  frequent  occasion  to 
light  your  pipe  and  sit  to  smoke.  Very  soon  they 
half-dissuaded,  half-coerced  you  into  dropping  both 

[84] 


EVENING'S    QUIET    END 

the  spade  and  the  scythe,  and  wielding  instead  a 
shovel  and  a  rake.  You  didn't  know  why  they 
should  do  it,  and  strenuously  objected;  but  the 
weight  of  public  opinion  broke  your  resolution. 
By-and-bye,  to  your  disgust,  they  took  the  shovel 
and  rake  from  you,  and  gave  you  a  stout  hazel- 
staff,  with  which  implement  the  cleverest  of  them 
couldn't  work  wonders  in  a  hay-field  or  a  potato- 
patch.  After  experimenting  for  months  with  the 
stick  you  discovered  that  its  use  was  to  herd  and 
drive  cattle — and  help  a  man  climb  over  a  fence, 
too.  Little  by  little,  it  dawned  upon  you  that  you 
were  in  the  way  in  the  work  field,  both  because 
you  were  too  old  and  the  world  was  too  new. 
Modern  ideas,  which  did  not  harmonize  with  yours, 
were  creeping  in  there,  and  at  your  time  of  life, 
where  was  the  use  raising  a  row  about  it?  Any- 
how, you  were  needed  for  nursing  at  the  fireside 
now;  for  there  was  none  could  better  soothe  and 
please  Larry's  little  children,  and  none  they  were 
fonder  of  than  yourself  and  Molly.  You  had  rid- 
dles and  guesses  unending  to  keep  them  amused  and 
amazed  for  the  length  of  a  summer's  day  and  a 
winter's  night,  and  sweet,  crooning  old  songs  and 
ballads  which  were  in  esteem  when  you  were  young ; 
and  stories — oh,  such  stories! — stories  of  ghosts 
and  of  fairies  and  of  the  wonderful  giants  of  old — 
entrancing    stories    that    the    spellbound    children 

[85] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

could  listen  to  for  a  lifetime,  and  with  their  last 
breath  be  still  begging  for  more !  Yes,  your  stories 
were  both  inimitable  and  inexhaustible.  You  were 
now  one  of  the  great  Shanachies*  of  the  country- 
side. It  was  not  little  children  alone  who  loved 
to  listen  to  your  stories,  but  big  children  likewise, 
some  of  them  six  feet  high.  You  fascinated  the 
gray  children  as  easily  as  the  green.  Those  were 
wonderful  tales  that  you  had  in  your  repertoire 
surely,  and  it  was  well  known  that  you  could  never 
tell  yourself  out.  Besides,  none  of  your  stories  ever 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  coffined  between  the  two 
covers  of  a  book.  Neither  were  they  made  yester- 
day. Through  your  father,  and  his  father's  father, 
and  so  on  backward  for  some  thousands  of  years, 
had  been  handed  down  to  you  this  rare  heritage  of 
grand  old  tales.  A  thousand  times  on  a  winter's 
night,  when  they  knew  you  would  be  story-telling, 
the  neighbours,  both  young  and  old,  gathered  from 
far  and  near,  crowding  your  house  to  listen  once 
again  to  the  astounding  adventures  of  the  brave 
King  of  Ireland's  Son,  or  to  the  side-splitting  tricks 
of  tricksome  Jack,  the  lucky,  witty  son  of  the 
poor  widow  woman,  or  to  the  magic  romance 
(which  it  took  three  of  the  longest  nights  in  winter 
to  tell)  of  the  wonderful  wanderings  of  the  King 
of  Connacht's  Thirteen  Sons.     The  whole  house 

♦Story-tellers. 

[86] 


EVENING'S    QUIET   END 

held  their  breath  as  you  came  to  your  climax,  till 
the  wonder  was  that  some  of  the  more  excited 
of  them  didn't  burst  entirely. 

To  add  to  the  charm  of  your  story-telling  every 
single  word  of  every  single  tale,  as  both  yourself 
and  your  audience  well  knew,  was  real  truth.  And 
every  single  happening,  just  as  you  had  heard  it 
from  your  grandfather  and  retold  it,  actually  and 
really  happened — in  the  wonderful,  mystical,  magi- 
cal old,  old  times.  Therein  lay  the  great  value  of 
your  stories.  On  a  night  when  the  bacach  (wan- 
dering beggarman)  arrived  at  your  house,  and 
made  himself  at  home  there  till  morning,  the  word 
went  like  moor-fire  over  the  country-side,  and  your 
kitchen  was  quickly  crowded  with  the  crowd  that 
came  to  hear  the  pair  of  you  tell  stories  one  against 
the  other,  till  either  exhaustion  or  daybreak  put 
an  end  to  what  seemed  an  unendable  contest. 

Your  power  as  a  Shanachie  was  always  invoked 
at  wakes  in  the  kitchen,  when  the  night  needed 
cutting;  for  time  always  went  on  wings,  they  said, 
when  you  were  story-telling.  You  were  great  at 
wakes,  anyhow,  and  you  never  missed  one  within  a 
radius  of  five  miles.  When  you  entered  the  wake- 
house,  sympathetically  shaking  the  hand  of  the 
bereaved  one,  you  said,  as  customary,  with  down- 
cast eyes:  "Mary"  (or  "Neill,"  as  the  case  might 
be),  "I'm  sorry  for  your  trouble,"  getting  reply: 

[87] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

"Thanky,  Johneen,  I  know  it.  But  it's  a  trouble 
that  must  meet  all  of  us,  God  prepare  us  for  it!" 
Then,  proceeding  to  the  door  of  the  room  where 
the  corpse  was  stretched,  you  knelt  down  and  with 
bowed  head  prayed  three  Pater-and-Aves  for  the 
soul  of  the  departed  one.  A  flutter  now  ran  around 
the  gathering,  for  all  knew  now  that  they  would 
be  treated  to  something  more  than  usually  inter- 
esting. When  you  had  prayed  your  prayer,  and 
had  taken  your  seat  among  the  young  men  and 
women  of  only  sixty,  who  envied  you  for  your  ma- 
ture years,  you  were  called  on  to  reckon  the  age 
of  him  that  was  dead.  That  set  the  wheels  of 
memory  working;  and,  as  on  all  such  occasions  it 
worked  aloud,  rambling  over  a  deal  of  mighty 
fascinating  ground,  all  the  house  hung  on  your 
soliloquy.  Having  calculated  the  age  of  the  de- 
ceased, synchronizing  the  various  crises  and  phases 
in  his  life  with  other  notable  parish  events,  you 
then,  at  the  instigation  of  some  of  the  cronies  pres- 
ent, calculated  the  ages  of  every  one  in  the  country- 
side whose  age  had  heretofore  seemed  incalculable, 
and  entrancing  reminiscence  became  the  order  of 
the  night.  Reminiscence  ran  riot  round  the  house, 
and  young  and  old  were  whirled  into  the 
Maelstrom.  Every  doubt,  however,  was  referred 
to  you — or  to  yourself  and  Molly,  in  case  Herself 
was   also  present — and  your  verdict  was  unques- 

[88] 


EVENING'S    QUIET    END 

tioned.  Your  position  was  an  enviable  one.  You 
were  a  proud  man,  and  no  wonder.  "Yes,"  you 
acknowledged,  in  your  vainglory  forgetting  the 
stiffening  body  on  the  bed,  "  'tis  a  grand  thing  to 
be  an  old  man." 

A  very  grand  thing — the  proof  is  being  forced 
on  you  at  every  turn.  The  young  reverence  you, 
the  middle-aged  venerate  and  admire  you.  At  your 
own  fireside,  or  at  the  fireside  of  the  stranger,  at 
the  cross-roads  or  in  the  chapel-yard,  every  ear  is 
pricked  to  get  your  comment  on  the  subject  under 
discussion.  Your  views  on  politics  and  politicians 
must  be  the  correct  views.  You  can  by  your  slight- 
est word  exalt  the  fallen  man,  and  by  a  mere  shake 
of  the  head  tumble  from  his  tuppenny  pedestal  the 
hero  of  the  hour.  You  quickly  convince  your  audi- 
ence that  politics  are  not  what  they  used  to  be; 
there's  too  little  do  and  too  much  say  in  Ireland 
now.  In  your  day  you  aimed  to  argue  politics  in 
a  different  fashion.  To  "the  pathos  of  a  pike  and 
the  logic  of  a  blow"  you  pinned  your  faith.  Young 
men  sigh  and  vainly  wish  that  old  days  and  old 
ways  would  come  again. 

When  Dan  Timoney  and  Conal  Moohan  dispute 
about  the  possession  of  a  turf  bank,  or  Condy  Dor- 
rian  claims  a  right-of-way  which  Mattha  Cannon 
denies,  or  Murty  Molloy  asks  additional  dowry  for 
his  wife  when  he  discovers — too  late — that  she's 

[89] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

a  bad  butter-maker;  it  is  to  you  the  disputants  come 
tor  decision.  And  your  word  is  law — as  much  be- 
cause of  the  honour  due  to  age,  as  the  superiority 
of  wisdom  that  must  accompany  it.  All  questions 
of  genealogy,  chronology,  and  history  are  referred 
to  you  for  settlement.  If  a  stranger,  purporting 
to  be  learned,  comes  into  the  parish,  it  is  artfully 
contrived  to  bring  him  through  the  fire  of  your 
presence,  and  the  neighbours  watch  you  narrowly 
to  see  how  he  has  stood  the  test.  If  friends  quar- 
rel, or  there  be  a  family  fall-out,  it  is  of  course 
your  duty  to  go  to  them,  hear  both  sides,  gently 
reprove  all  parties,  and  make  them  shake  hands  in 
your  presence  and  promise  to  be  henceforth  nearer 
and  dearer  than  ever  to  one  another.  When  you 
speak  at  a  gathering,  all  pause  to  listen — the  very 
young  watching  their  elders  to  see  how  they  take 
your  words,  and  their  elders  watching  you  with  the 
utmost  reverence.  Against  the  spirit  of  scepticism, 
that,  even  in  your  remote  world,  would,  if  it  dared, 
lift  its  head,  you  bravely  and  scathingly  do  battle. 
You  vindicate  tradition,  and  uphold  beliefs  that 
came  to  you  sanctified  by  the  centuries.  If,  at  one 
of  your  astonishing  illustrations,  any  cynic  in  the 
company  so  far  forgets  himself  as  to  smile,  the 
elder  most  convenient  to  him  forthwith  knocks  him 
down.  The  slighted  ghost  has  reason  to  be  grate- 
ful to  you ;  the  fairy  has  in  you  a  champion  indomi- 

[90] 


EVENING'S    QUIET    END 

table;  and  all  the  beautiful  old  beliefs  of  your  peo- 
ple are  secure  while  you  walk  abroad. 

And  the  fairies  recompensed  you.  All  men  saw 
that.  For  you  were  lucky  in  everything  you  turned 
your  hand  to.  The  world  went  well  with  you. 
And  your  children's  children  were  bringing  honour 
to  your  gray  hairs,  and  joy  to  your  soul.  That 
you  had  never  known  pain  or  ache  was  of  course 
not  a  personal  fairy  favour,  for  there  wasn't  a 
couple,  lucky  or  unlucky,  in  the  country-side,  who 
couldn't  say  the  same  of  themselves.  There  was 
indeed  a  family  over  the  border  of  the  parish, 
whose  grandfather  the  doctor  had  attended  three 
times,  and  the  tongue  of  scandal  told  it  against 
them  yet.  And  yet  you  had  worked  out  in  the 
fields,  summer  and  winter,  wet  and  dry,  and  had 
often  come  home  from  a  day's  work  in  the  ditches 
with  the  seven  streams  of  Egypt  running  from 
your  clothing,  sat  down  to  a  hearty  supper,  and 
then  gone  "raking"  to  a  neighbour's  house,  sitting 
in  his  corner  for  the  lee-long  night  with  a  reek 
like  that  of  a  burning  turf-stack  ascending  the 
chimney  from  your  rain-sodden  clothes,  causing  the 
bean-a-tighe*  to  remark  that  you  were  damp,  and 
yourself  slightingly  to  reply  that  you'd  be  dry  be- 
fore the  new  day.  And  the  man  who  would  have 
suggested  changing  your  clothes  would  have  been 

•Woman  of  the  house. 

[91] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

looked  at  by  everyone  as  if  he  had  two  heads  on 
him !  Thanks  be  to  Heaven,  even  now  in  your 
old  age,  you  knew  very  little  of  pain  or  ache  either 
— barring,  maybe,  the  distant  rumble  of  the 
rheumatiz  in  your  bones,  which  made  your  son 
Larry  and  his  wife  insist  that  neither  Herself  nor 
yourself  should  get  up  in  the  morning.  You  had 
first  laughed  at  this  preposterous  proposal,  and  then 
stormed.  But  Molly  consented  to  take  breakfast 
in  bed.  By-and-bye  you  were  seduced  to  the  luxury 
also,  and  actually  found  it  good.  You  would  have 
your  breakfast  and  a  draw  of  the  pipe,  and  then 
turn  over  for  another  snooze,  before  getting  up  and 
getting  into  your  duds,  and  beginning  to  nurse  and 
croon  to  the  children,  or  potter  about  the  house 
and  the  haggard.  You  turned  up,  though,  for  all 
the  other  meals,  whereat  the  tit-bits  were  singled 
out  for  you.  You  now  helped  to  break  Molly's 
spirit,  inducing  her  to  accept  coddling,  and  thus 
paved  the  way  for  your  own  downfall.  You  were 
being  coddled  yourself  directly,  and  were  luxuriat- 
ing in  it.  Without  putting  it  into  words,  yourself 
and  Herself — each  nursing  one  of  Larry's  littlest 
children — acknowledged  to  each  other  across  the 
fire  that  slipping  into  age  wasn't  such  an  unpleasant 
thing  after  all.  At  bedtime,  as  usual,  you  led  the 
Rosary.  That  was  a  prerogative  you  never  re- 
signed.    But  the  nearer  you  approached  dissolu- 

[92] 


EVENING'S    QUIET    END 

tion,  the  longer  did  you  draw  out  the  trimmings 
and  the  more  plentiful  were  the  petitions  you  put 
up,  not  for  yourself  and  Molly  alone,  but  for 
God's  protection  and  blessing  on  all  the  dear  and 
loved  ones  who  must  very  soon  be  left  without  your 
protection. 

You  had  well  turned  four-score  and  ten  when  at 
length  you  dissolved,  leaving  behind  you  Herself, 
on  whom  you  bestowed  the  last  lingering,  loving 
look — a  look,  too,  that  plainly  said:  "Come  soon, 
a  cuisle  mo  chroidhe.*" 

A  great  wake  you  had  surely.  Your  thousand 
friends  came  from  far  and  near  to  smoke  a  friendly 
pipe  at  your  house,  and  to  pray  a  prayer  over  you, 
and  sit  for  some  hours  by  your  bier,  lamenting  that 
the  parish  would  never  see  your  likes  again. 
And  the  funeral  was  something  that  would 
have  delighted  the  heart  of  you,  had  you  only 
been  able  to  see  it.  In  relays  of  four,  the  finest 
men  of  the  parish  shouldered  you  over  bog  and 
moor,  hill  and  dale,  road  and  river,  to  your  final 
field,  with  five  hundred  footing  it  behind.  And 
when  you  were  lowered  to  your  long  home,  and 
Father  Peter,  in  shaky  tones,  had  committed  you  : 
"Earth  to  earth,  dust  to  dust,  ashes  to  ashes," 
the  boys  who  filled  your  grave  and  scrawed  it,  said 
with  the  last  sod:     "With  all  our  sorrow,  we're 

*0  Pulse  of  My  Heart! 

[93] 


YOURSELF  AND  HERSELF 

proud.  For  from  this  day  out  'twill  be  our  boast 
that  we  planted  the  best  man  Killymard  ever  knew. 
God  rest  you,  Johneen !" 

And  a  hundred  bowed  heads  muttered  a  deep 
and  fervent  "Amen!" 


[94] 


THE  LORE  YOU  LOVED 

IN  all  the  world  again  was  no  lore  so  lovely, 
belief  so  beautiful,  or  faith  so  powerful,  as 
that  of  you  and  yours  at  Knockagar,  where  the 
spirit  world  touched  earth,  and  its  people  mingled 
with  men. 

Not  only  were  the  Gentle  People  with  you  every- 
where and  always,  but  your  affectionate  dead, 
grown  homesick  in  Heaven,  came  back  to  see  and 
feel,  to  advise  and  to  console.  And  among  your 
holy  hills  the  old  saints,  scattering  blessing,  often 
walked  again.  And  sometimes  the  Angels  passed 
as  shuilers;  and  even  the  Christ  himself  in  beg- 
gar's rags  leant  over  your  half-door — asking  alms 
or  your  roof's  shelter — just  to  find  for  Himself 
whether  you  were  forgetting. 

Your  homely  lore  a  learned  world  would  prob- 
ably despise.  But  well  you  know  that  whatever 
of  solid  work  is  in  you,  you  owe  to  that  lore 
whereon  you  were  suckled,  and  on  which,  through 
time  of  youth  and  riper  manhood,  your  soul  as 
well  as  your  fancy  fed.  Whether  it  was  of  love, 
or  faith,  or  humour,  or  beauty,  or  just  simply  joy, 
from  every  one  of  the  lovely  legends  that  were 

[95] 


THE  LORE  YOU  LOVED 

as  thick  as  caoran-berries  on  the  hills,  you  learnt 
some  lesson,  little  or  big. 

How  could  you  help  it  ?  Sure  they  were,  every- 
one of  them,  as  delightful  and  as  useful  as,  say: 

The  Return  of  Raftery 

'Twas  a  man  Raftery  was,  as  well  as  a  fiddler, 
and  the  first  and  best  of  both  that  ever  stepped 
in  shoe  leather.  And  there  never  walked  the 
world  a  man  with  manlier  notions  in  his  heart. 
And  och,  sure  the  wailin'  o'  the  wind  was  in  his 
fiddle,  and  the  sighin'  o'  the  sae,  and  the  whisperin' 
o'  the  Sidhe*  among  the  sallies,  and  the  mire- 
snipes  complainin'  on  the  moor.  The  loneliness 
o'  the  bogs  was  in  it,  and  the  loveliness  o'  the 
sky  and  the  whistlin'  o'  the  blackbird  and  the  sing- 
in'  o'  the  lark,  the  throopin'  o'  the  fairies  and  the 
beat  of  their  ten  times  ten  thousand  little  feet  at 
the  moonlit  dance  on  the  rath. 

Like  the  wind  among  the  reeds,  his  music  bent 
and  turned  what  way  it  liked  the  crowds  that  al- 
ways followed.  And  the  lowest  heart  was  lifted, 
and  the  proudest  was  made  meek,  and  the  hardest 
he  could  melt  like  snow  in  May.  Men  would 
tramp  from  Ireland's  ends  to  hear  him  play;  for 
his  fame  filled  every  foot  of  ground  between  the 
Four  Saes — and  they  forgot  hunger  and  thirst  and 

♦The  Gentle  People. 

[96] 


THE  LORE  YOU  LOVED 

hot  and  cold,  while  the  spell  of  his  music  was 
on  them  and  the  ring  of  his  fiddle  echoin'  and  re- 
echoin'  down  the  stairways  of  their  hearts. 
Though  the  richest  in  the  land  he  well  might  be, 
a  tattered  coat  was  the  best  he  wore.  Money  he 
despised.  "Love,  love,"  his  one  great  theme,  was 
all  he  saw  and  all  he  cared  for,  all  that  filled  the 
"world  star  high"  for  him. 

And  Love  it  was,  his  soul's  delight,  that  brought 
him  from  beyond  the  grave  to  the  weddin'  of  Jack 
MacDermott  and  Mary. 

And  they  had  love  and  only  love,  brave  Jack 
and  winsome  Mary,  that  night  they  married. 
Four  bare  walls  they  returned  to  from  the  chapel, 
and  the  cold  water  and  the  misty  outlook  entirely. 
But  sure  'twas  little  they  minded  that,  when  marry 
for  love  they  did.  Miser  MacGroarty  of  the 
Hillhead,  Mary  had  refused — with  all  his  lands 
and  strands  and  cows  galore.  And  Nancy  Moore 
of  Murvagh,  with  her  hundred  pounds  and  seven 
heifers  and  two  chests  of  linen,  who'd  come  at 
the  raisin'  of  his  little  finger,  Jack  bravely  turned 
his  back  upon  to  marry  Mary. 

So  here  they  were  alone  and  lonely  in  their  lit- 
tle cabin  this  weddin'  night,  when  'twas  making 
merry  with  them  all  the  worl'  should  be.  Alone 
and  lonesome  aye — for  all  the  wise  ones  were  dis- 
gusted with  them  both  for  that  they  threw  away 

[97] 


THE  LORE  YOU  LOVED 

the  God-sent  chance  of  wealth  and  comfort — the 
heifers  and  gold  of  Nancy  Moore,  and  the  miser's 
lands  and  strands  and  score  o'  cows;  for  throwin' 
away  these  splendid  chances  as  if  they  mattered 
not,  and  marryin'  in  haste  like  the  fools  they  must 
be,  without  even  a  month's  potatoes  at  their  back. 
The  truth  was  what  the  wise  ones  wouldn't  see  and 
couldn't  see  that,  for  fear  the  world's  wisdom 
would  make  them  marry  gold,  they  flew  the  temp- 
tation quick,  and  married  love — which  disgusted 
all  the  wise  ones,  and  left  the  lovers  as  they  were, 
lonesome  but  lovingful,  on  this  their  weddin'  night. 

The  latch  was  lifted  and  into  the  floor  to  them 
stepped  a  bent  old  man  with  a  fiddle  under  his 
greeny-black  coat,  wishin'  them  God's  blessin'  and 
takin'  the  seat  that  Jack  pulled  to  the  fire  for  him. 

"A  long  way  I've  come,"  said  the  fiddler.  "It's 
hungry  I  am  and  I'll  thank  you  good  people  for 
a  bite  of  supper." 

"Ha!  Ha!  Ha!"  laughed  both  of  them  to- 
gether. "Is  it  supper  ye  want?  Why,  though 
we're  just  married  this  day  ourselves,  we've  to 
sup  upon  love.  Yet,  in  troth,  if  we'd  anything 
more  fillin'  for  the  stomach,  welcome  you  or  any 
other  stranger  would  be  with  a  heart  and  a  half 
to  a  big  share  o't." 

"What!"  said  the  stranger.  "Is  it  marry  for 
love  you  did,  and  nothin'  to  put  in  the  pot?" 

[98] 


THE  LORE  YOU  LOVED 

"That  same,"  says  they.  "Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 
And  now  we'll  pay  for  it." 

"But  it's  cheap  at  the  price,"  said  Mary. 

"It's  cheap  at  the  price,"  said  Jack. 

"God  bless  you,"  said  the  fiddler,  who  was 
watchin'  under  his  brows.  "Then  you  mustn't 
be  the  losers.  Did  you  ever  hear  tell  of  Raftery?" 
says  he. 

"Raftery!  Sure,  'tisn't  jokin'  us  you  are!  For 
there's  not  one  in  the  world  exceptin'  the  deaf 
and  dead  who  didn't  hear  tell  of  the  great 
Raftery." 

Then  the  old  fiddler  laid  the  fiddle  and  bow 
across  his  knees,  and  he  said:  "Send  word  to  the 
neighbours  to  come  and  bring  their  marriage  pres- 
ents— the  best  of  everything — for  Raftery's  here 
to  play  for  the  weddin'." 

"Raftery!"  they  both  shouted  together  when 
their  speeches  returned  to  them. 

"Raftery,  I'm  he,"  said  the  fiddler,  resuming 
his  fiddle.  The  world's  wants  melted  like  the 
mists  off  the  mountains,  and  the  hearts  o'  them 
were  lifted  to  the  roof  tree!  Like  moor  afire,  the 
news  swept  the  countryside  that  Raftery,  the 
great  Raftery,  of  whom  even  the  babies  in  the 
cradle  had  heard,  and  a  few  of  the  fortunate  ones 
had  seen,  was  at  Jack  MacDermott's  and  Mary's 
to    play    for    the    weddin' !      And    the    country- 

[99] 


THE  LORE  YOU  LOVED 

side  lost  its  head  and  left  its  work,  and,  forgetting 
its  grudge,  gathered  up  wedding  presents  the  best, 
and  hied  itself  to  the  weddin'-house.  Barney 
Brian  brought  a  side  of  bacon,  and  Jimmy  Mac- 
Daid  a  leg  of  mutton.  Eamonn  Og  came  bent 
two-double  under  a  bursting  sack  of  potatoes,  and 
Mrs.  McCailin  like  a  mountain,  her  arms  filled 
with  beddin'.  The  linens  that  Molly  MacArdle 
brought  were  outmatched  only  by  the  flannels  of 
Sorcha  Ruadh,  the  firkin  of  butter  from  Paddy 
the  Ghost,  and  oat-cakes  to  use  it  on  from  little 
Roisin  Higgarty.  Even  the  Bacach  Beag  brought 
his  present  of  sugar  and  tea.  And  to  the  world's 
wonder,  the  niggard,  Mattha  Mac-a-Nirn,  came  on 
the  scene  crawlin'  under  a  creel  of  quackin'  ducks 
and  geese. 

It's  a  warm  farmer's  biggest  barn  'twould  take 
to  hold  the  heaps  and  piles,  the  mixterum- 
gatherum  collection  of  weddin'  presents  that  were 
piled  upon  Jack  and  Mary  that  night.  And 
Raftery  for  them  thanked  every  man  and  woman 
with  just  a  nod,  and  every  soul  knew  they'd  never 
have  wealth  enough  to  return  him  his  change.  At 
the  weddin'  supper — the  greatest  ever  spread, 
'twas  agreed,  in  that  part  of  the  country — the  peo- 
ple almost  feared  to  munch  a  mouthful,  lest 
they'd  miss  a  word  of  Raftery's  wit  cracked  by 
him   from  the   head   of  the  table — the  wit   that 

[  ioo] 


THE  LORE  YOU  LOVED 

scored  and  scarred  and  sizzled,  every  word  of  it, 
but  still  even  made  him  laugh  on  whose  back  it 
was  risin'  biggest  blisters. 

A  proud  man  and  woman  were  Jack  and  Mary, 
of  the  best  and  bravest  and  merriest,  maddest 
weddin'  supper  the  country  ever  witnessed !  And 
'tis  well  they  might  be  proud — and,  moreover, 
every  children's  child  that  was  there  would  tell 
his  children's  children  who  it  was  that  graced 
the  head  of  Jack  MacDermott's  table  his  weddin' 
night.  And  when  supper  was  done  with,  and  the 
floor  cleared,  Raftery  took  his  seat  on  a  chair  upon 
a  table  in  the  corner  and,  puttin'  his  fiddle  under 
his  chin,  drew  his  bow  upon  it.  And  the  people 
held  their  breaths,  for  sure  the  wailin'  of  the  wind 
was  in  that  fiddle,  and  the  sighin'  o'  the  sae  and 
the  whisperin'  of  the  Sidlie  among  the  sallies,  and 
the  heather-bleat's  complainin'  on  the  moor.  The 
loveliness  of  the  skies  and  the  loneliness  o'  the 
bogs  were  there,  and  the  whistlin'  o'  the  black- 
bird and  the  singin'  o'  the  lark  and  the  marchin' 
o'  the  fairies  on  the  moor,  and  the  beat  of  their 
ten  times  ten  thousand  little  feet  at  the  moonlit 
dance  upon  the  rath.  Like  the  wind  among  the 
reeds,  his  music  bent  and  turned  what  way  it  listed 
the  breathless  crowd  that  listened.  And  the  low- 
est heart  he  lifted,  and  the  hardest  he  melted  like 
snow  in  May,  and  a  soul  there  wasn't  in  all  that 

[ioi] 


THE  LORE  YOU  LOVED 

gatherin'  but,  hearing,  was  put  under  fairy  spells 
so  sweet  that  they  wished  they  might  never  be  let 
free  again. 

And  when  it  was  due  to  lift  the  fiddler's  fee, 
Raftery  took  his  hat  and  went  round  the  house 
himself,  a  thing  no  fiddler  ever  did  before. 

They  who  vowed,  under  the  music's  spell,  to 
give  sixpence,  gave  a  shilling,  and  he  that  prom- 
ised himself  to  give  a  shilling,  gave  a  crown,  till, 
when  the  house  was  finished,  the  hat  was  full  and 
flowin'  o'er. 

And  when  every  soul  of  them,  still  under  their 
spells,  had  shook  the  hand  of  Jack  and  kissed  the 
mouth  of  Mary,  prayin'  God  to  prosper  their  mar- 
riage, and  pushed  for  their  homes,  Raftery,  put- 
ting his  fiddle  under  his  old  greeny-black  coat, 
shook  stunned  Jack,  and  kissed  Mary,  and  prayin' 
God  to  send  them  His  blessin's,  went  his  ways, 
leavin'  both  of  them  open-mouthed,  wide-eyed  and 
speechless. 

The  sight  of  the  old  man's  hat  upon  the  table, 
with  silver  runnin'  o'er  it,  'twas  that  fetched 
Mary  back  her  speeches  again  in  two  minutes. 
"The  creature's  forgot  his  hat  and  his  money!" 
cries  she. 

"Wait,  wait,  till  I  call  him !"  says  Jack, 
boundin'  for  the  door.     But  ere  he  reached  it,  it 

[  102] 


THE  LORE  YOU  LOVED 

opened  and  in  stepped  Pat  the  Pedlar,  with  his : 
"God  save  all  here!" 

"Throw  down  your  pack,  Pat,"  says  Jack, 
"and  fetch  back  here  quick  the  old  man  with  the 
fiddle  that  met  you  on  the  boreen." 

"Who  the — do  you  mean?"  says  Pat. 

"Raftery — no  other,"  says  Jack.  "The  great 
Raftery  himself!  He's  been  playin'  at  our  wed- 
din'  and  forgot  his  hatful  of  silver.  Run  after 
him." 

"Raftery,"  repeats  Pat.  "Is  it  the  ravin'  is 
come  over  ye?  Raftery  I  helped  to  turn  the  sod 
on  three  weeks  ago  beyont  in  County  Galway — the 
dead  vagabone!" 

"And  Raftery,"  then  says  he  to  himself  with 
a  sad  headshake,  while  Jack  and  Mary,  open- 
mouthed,  were  struck  speechless  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor — "Raftery,  the  miserable  spendthrift, 
who  might  have  died  a  millionaire,  went  away  with 
just  three  ha'pence  in  his  pocket,  and  not  a  whole 
shirt  to  his  back.     Raftery !     Pagh  !" 

'Twas  a  man  Raftery  was,  as  well  as  a  fiddler, 
and  the  first  and  best  of  both.  And  there  never 
stepped  on  shoe  leather  nor  walked  the  world 
a  man  with  manlier  notions  in  his  mind.  And 
och,  sure  the  wailin'  o'  the  wind  was  in  that  fiddle 
and  the  sighin'  o'  the  sae  and  the  whisperin'  o'  the 
Sidhe  among  the   sallies,   and  the   heather-bleat's 

[  103] 


THE  LORE  YOU  LOVED 

complainin'  on  the  moor.  The  loneliness  o'  the 
hogs  was  in  it,  and  the  loveliness  of  the  skies  and 
the  whistlin'  o'  the  blackbird  and  the  singin'  o' 
the  lark  and  the  marchin'  o'  the  fairies  and  the 
beat  of  their  ten  times  ten  thousand  little  feet  at 
the  moonlit  dance  on  the  rath. 

Like  the  wind  among  the  reeds,  his  music  bent 
and  turned  what  way  it  liked  the  crowds  that  al- 
ways listened.  And  the  lowest  heart  was  lifted, 
and  the  proudest  was  brought  down,  and  the  hard- 
est heart  he  could  shape  like  clay.  Though  the 
richest  in  the  land  he  might  be,  the  tattered  coat 
was  the  best  he  wore.  For  money  he  despised,  and 
"Love,  Love,"  his  one  great  theme,  was  all  he  saw 
and  all  he  cared  for,  all  that  filled  the  "world  star- 
high"  for  him.  Music,  Beauty  and  Love,  they 
were  the  wealth  he  should  bring  with  him  when 
he  died.  So,  with  three  ha'pence  in  his  pocket  and 
half  a  shirt  on  his  back,  he  died  a  millionaire,  did 
Raftery. 


[  104] 


THE  PRIEST'S  BOY 

AS  the  Priest's  Boy  he  was  perhaps  more  fa- 
miliarly known  to  you,  and  certainly  more 
widely  known  to  all  the  world.  Under  Father 
Tom  and  two  less  famous  priests  gone  before  him, 
Barney  was  Priest's  Boy,  as  he  was  likewise  under 
Father  La'rence,  and  still  so  under  Father  Dan. 
Priests,  in  fact,  might  come  and  priests  might  go, 
but  the  Priest's  Boy  went  on  forever.  As  a 
bouchal  of  eighteen,  he  received  the  distinction, 
"becoming  the  Priest's  Boy  of  all-work";  and 
now,  a  hale  and  hearty  lad  of  sixty  years  and  six, 
he  was  Priest's  Boy  still — and  that  to  all  but  the 
complete  eclipse  of  his  own  right  name,  which,  to 
rescue  it  from  oblivion,  we  may  here  state  was 
Barney  Meehan. 

In  courting  days,  when  more  thoughtless  youths 
went  rambling,  Barney,  an  ambitious  boy  ever,  at- 
tended Micky  Rufus's  night  school  for  three  whole 
winters,  and,  finding  himself  then  possessed  of  a 
toothful  or  two  of  reading  and  writing,  capable 
(without  danger  of  dislocating  his  tongue)  of 
copying  a  headline  if  it  was  written  big  enough, 
and  able  to  read  "aisy  prent,"  cast  about  him  his 
active  left  eye — a  notably  active  eye  that   could 

[105] 


THE  PRIEST'S  BOY 

leave  the  other  in  limbo  and  make  a  living  for  it- 
self— and,  with  characteristic  pluck,  aspired  to  be 
Priest's  Boy.  And  it  wasn't  six  months  later  till 
he  found  himself  clothed  with  the  proud  dignity  he 
had  so  daringly  coveted. 

Yet,  truth  to  tell,  between  Barney  and  his  of- 
fice honours  were  reciprocated;  for,  if  the  office 
conferred  dignity  on  Barney  (and  it  did),  Barney 
carried  new  dignity  to  it,  and,  the  manners  of  his 
time  considered,  almost  lifted  Priest's  Boy  into 
a  profession,  and  its  duties  into  an  art.  Ere 
Barney  lifted  the  rod  of  power,  the  Priest's  Boy 
ranked  in  the  Parish  next  only  to  the  Masther 
(who,  of  course,  was  next  to  the  priest)  ;  but  under 
Barney  the  Priest's  Boy  was  never  next  man  to 
the  Masther;  in  general,  perhaps,  consenting  to 
place  himself  under  reverential  constraint,  the 
Priest's  Boy  was  next  to  the  priest;  but  many, 
many  times  the  Priest  was  only  next  man  to  the 
Priest's  Boy. 

To  the  first  few  priests  he  served,  indeed,  Bar- 
ney was  boy  in  deed  and  name.  But,  noblesse 
oblige;  under  Father  Tom,  realizing  his  position 
as  part  of  that  great  structure  against  which  not 
even  the  gates  of  Hell  shall  prevail,  be  began  to 
shoulder  what  he  considered  his  due  share  of  the 
parish  cares.  Over  Father  La'rence  he  first  as- 
serted parental  authority,  which  naturally  devel- 

[106] 


THE  PRIEST'S  BOY 

oped  into  affectionate  despotism,  so  that  poor 
Father  La'rence,  a  man  of  magnificent  humility, 
eventually  became  the  Priest's  Boy's  boy.  Father 
Dan,  of  sterner  mould,  did  not  at  first  kiss  the 
rod.  This  waywardness  Barney  tolerated,  but 
none  the  less  endeavoured  to  reform,  feeling  con- 
fident that  it  only  required  time  and  temper,  and 
even  he  would  yet  know  his  place.  And  the  event 
justified  his  theory — Barney  in  due  time  finding 
himself  master  of  the  situation  and  of  Father  Dan, 
so  that  he  had  no  occasion  to  discontinue  the  use 
of  a  certain  care-burdened  first  person  plural, 
which  in  the  era  of  Father  Tom  had  come  unto 
him,  bearing  with  it,  in  the  eyes  of  you  all  new 
laurels  for  Barney's  brow. 

In  those  days  to  know  how  to  serve  Mass  was 
an  indispensable  accomplishment  for  all  who  as- 
pired to  the  office  of  Priest's  Boy.  Barney,  when 
first  his  ambitious  eye  was  turned  on  the  position, 
travelled  five  miles  of  bog  every  night  to  get  in- 
ducted into  the  mysteries  of  reading  Latin  by  that 
expert  scholar  and  historian,  old  Jamie  Briany 
Mor  of  Lis-na-mrog.  And  this  accomplishment 
was  by  no  means  the  least  factor  in  elevating  him 
to  the  altitude  he  attained  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
The  easy  nonchalance  with  which,  after  a  ten 
months'  course  and  a  twelve  months'  practice,  he 
could  acquit  himself  at  Mass-serving  made  an  ad- 

£  107  1 


THE  PRIEST'S  BOY 

miring  congregation  feel  that  Barney  had  been 
born  into  the  world  to  fill  this  office.  His  Latin, 
it  is  true,  might  sometimes  have  puzzled  a  pro- 
fessor of  the  language,  for,  besides  displaying  a 
lofty  disregard  for  the  pedantic  trivialities  which 
garnish  the  syntax,  Barney  followed  a  quite  origi- 
nal and  highly  euphonic  pronunciation  invented  by 
the  aforesaid  Jamie  Briany  Mor.  But  then  the 
style  in  which  he  rattled  out  the  sentences,  and 
made  the  language  spin  about  him,  as  he  ran  the 
priest  neck  and  neck,  was  something  that  compelled 
your  awed  admiration. 

But  he  was  a  benevolent  despot  to  you,  so  long 
as  you  deserved  benevolence.  But  no  longer. 
Some  acts  of  yours  could  not  be  condoned  even 
by  Barney — as,  for  instance,  to  die  yourself,  or 
have  one  of  your  family  or  friends  die,  at  an  im- 
proper hour.  And  if  you  did  make  up  your  mind 
to  die  at  an  obstinate  hour,  you  did  so  in  fear  and 
trembling  for  the  view  the  Priest's  Boy  would 
take  of  your  misconduct.  And  you  had  to  choose 
the  bravest,  most  reckless  man  in  the  townland 
to  go  for  the  Priest  for  you.  And  the  task  often- 
times daunted  the  most  daring. 

"What's  that,  Condy  Molloy?"  the  Priest's  Boy 
would  thunder.  "Is  it  for  to  go  on  a  sick-call  to 
the  toplans  of  Eglish !  At  three  o'clock  of  a 
mornin'  would  freeze  the  words  in  your  throat! 

[108] 


THE  PRIEST'S  BOY 

Your  brother's  wife's  stepmother  is  at  death's 
doore,  is  she?  Och,  the  sorra  die  with  ye,  wan  and 
all!  (An'  may  the  Lord  forgive  me  for  say  in' 
it!)  But  it  was  only  the  night  afore  last,  an'  it 
rainin'  cats  an'  dogs,  we  had  to  go  within'  a  hen's 
race  o'  the  same  contrairy  townlan',  an'  give  the 
last  rites  to  oul'  Pether  Phad.  From  afore  cock- 
screech  this  mornin' — or  yestherday  mornin',  I 
should  say,  for  it's  nixt  mornin'  now — we  were  on 
the  road;  first  to  Camlaragan,  where  we  had  to 
say  a  Mass  for  Molshie  Hude  (God  rest  her 
soul!),  who  was  undherboord*  from  the  night 
afore.  Then  hot-foot  to  Cron-na-nyass,  where  we 
had  called  a  Station  on  Barney  Jamie  Managhan. 
From  there  to  Dhrimanairy  to  see  afther  the  ap- 
pairance  that  they  put  out  on  it  has  been  ha'ntin1 
Hughie  Dinnion's  barn  since  the  Scotchman  hung 
himself  in  it.  An'  from  that,  without  givin'  us 
time  to  say  'The  Lord  bliss  ye'  or  'The  divil  miss 
ye,'  off  we  were  dhragged  to  the  shouldher  of 
Croaghan-Airgid  till  we'd  anoint  another  crature 
(God  guide  her  on  her  cowl  journey  this  night!), 
who  was  laivin'  farewell  with  hardships  an'  pov- 
erty. Hard-'arned,  Condy  Molloy,  was  the  half- 
wink  o'  sleep  we  were  tryin'  to  stale,  when  here 
slam  bang  came  yourself  with  a  tindherary  at  the 
doores  an'  windies  as  would  make  the  dead  curse 

*A  figurative  equivalent  for  dead. 

[  IO9] 


THE  PRIEST'S  BOY 

in  their  coffins,  wantin'  us  off  to  the  toplan's  of 
Eglish  to  see  your  brother's  wife's  stepmother! 
The  sorra  die  with  ye  wanst  an'  forever,  Condy 
Molloy,  say  I  again — an'  may  Heaven  forgive 
both  you  an'  me ! — me  for  bad  prayers  and  you  for 
provokin'  them !  But  sure,  ever  an'  always 
Eglish  was  notorious  for  contrairiness;  ye  wouldn't 
die  like  common  Christians,  at  a  raisonable  an' 
saisonable  hour!  Oh,  no!  if  the  day  was  seven 
months  long,  an  Eglish  woman  'ud  wait  till  she'd 
get  the  middle  o'  the  night,  an'  she  was  sure  the 
Priest's  Boy — an'  the  priest — was  asleep,  to  take 
it  intil  her  head  to  die.  The  back  o'  me  hand 
to  you  Eglish !  An'  the  sole  o'  me  foot,  too ! 
Come,  Father  Dan !  Father  Dan !  FA-ATHER 
DA-AN !  Shake  yourself  and  throw  on  your 
duds!  Eglish  no  less!  Glory  be  to  goodness! 
Three  o'clock  in  the  mornin'  an'  fit  to  freeze  a 
mill-race !  The  curse  o'  the  crows  on  you,  Condy 
Molloy,  but  ye've  a  dale  to  answer  for!" 

Ere  he  returned  the  bravest  quailed.  Nor  did 
Father  Dan's  most  wrathful  remonstrances  avail 
to  reform  Barney.  "Arrah,  musha,  and  Heaven 
sees,  Father  Dan,  ye  have  as  much  gumption  as 
them.  Small  wondher  they'd  act  on  ye" — which 
is  to  say,  die  at  night — "when  this  is  the  way 
ye  take  to  encourage  them!  Be  aisy  with 
them!    Be  aisy  with  them!     It's  small  consarn  it 

[no] 


THE  PRIEST'S  BOY 

gives  your  reverence  in  throth.  But  only  ye  have 
me  to  speak  to  them,  be  me  sawnies,  ye'd  whistle 
another  tune.  An'  the  price  o'  ye  it  'ud  be,  if  I'd 
laive  it  atween  you's.  There's  not  an  oul'  woman 
from  en'  to  win'  of  the  parish — from  Doorin 
Point  to  Lachty  Ban — consarned  with  a  corn  on 
her  wee  toe  but  'ud  have  post  haste  for  ye  at 
midnight,  if  she  foun'  the  rain  comin'.  Ay,  aisy 
with  them,  aisy  with  them,  indeed!  Ye  ought 
to  give  out  that  ye'll  toast  chickens  for  them'll 
come  latest  an'  want  ye  farthest.  Me  soul,  I'd  like 
to  be  dressin'  some  o'  them  down  with  a  black- 
thorn plasther!  I'll  tell  your  reverence  what  it 
is — for  it's  as  well  to  speak  plain — either  I'm  the 
Priest's  Boy,  or  I'm  not.  If  I'm  not,  say  so.  If 
I  am,  then  be  the  laive  o'  your  Reverence's  coat, 
ye'll  plaise  allow  me  to  know  me  own  business." 

Mentally,  Father  Dan  put  his  own  interpreta- 
tion on  the  meaning  of  the  word  Boy  there;  but, 
on  reflection,  he  kept  the  lore  to  himself,  and  shak- 
ing his  head  retired — defeated.  Deep  down  in  his 
heart  he  had  come  to  realize  that  he  was  indeed 
the  Priest's  Boy's  boy. 


[in] 


WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  GREEK 

IN  the  course  of  time  Father  Dan,  by  long  years' 
pinching  of  himself  and  by  Herculean  efforts, 
raised  a  new  chapel,  rude  but  accommodating,  in 
the  upper  end  of  the  parish,  thus  saving  hundreds 
of  you  a  seven  miles'  trudge  on  Sundays. 

But  with  the  Chapel  came  a  new  curate — and 
trouble. 

When  Father  Luke  had  been  presented  to  the 
Priest's  Boy,  and  questioned  and  quietly  studied, 
a  blind  man  could  see  that  his  qualifications  were, 
at  least,  questionable.  Father  Luke  had  three 
large  defects  that  the  Priest's  Boy,  however  well 
disposed  he  might  be,  could  not  overlook.  He 
was  young,  genteel,  and  of  a  new  school.  Barney 
gravely  shook  his  head,  and  confided  to  Father 
Dan  that  the  Bishop  had  made  a  mistake.  Father 
Luke  might  make  a  very  good  curate,  indeed,  for 
townspeople,  but  he  would  never  rise  to  the  re- 
quirements of  Knocknagar. 

Still,  if  his  superior,  the  Bishop,  had  ordered 
Barney  to  put  his  foot  in  the  fire,  it  was  his  duty 
to  do  so — and  he'd  have  done  it.  So  with  like 
heroism  in  this  painful  case  here,  he  saw  his  duty 
and  would  do  it.    He  would  tolerate  this  reverend 

[112] 


WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  GREEK 

young  gentleman,  and  unmurmuringly  submit  to 
be  Priest's  Boy  over  him. 

However,  when  the  new  curate  began  turning 
the  parish  upside  down  and  the  Chapel  inside 
out,  the  Priest's  Boy's  heroic  resolve  was  put  to 
the  pin  of  its  collar.  But  when  Father  Luke  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  training  a  band  of  young 
Mass-servers — "acolytes  !"  he  styled  them — re- 
bellion was  let  loose.  Father  Dan,  fearfully  recog- 
nizing the  crisis  in  the  Church,  hurried  from 
Barney  to  Father  Luke,  and  reasoned  and  remon- 
strated. But  he  found  his  curate  as  obstinate  as 
his  Boy.  "He  must  have  his  way,  I  suppose, 
Barney,"  Father  Dan  resignedly  confided  to  the 
Priest's  Boy  later.  "The  dicken's  grandfather 
wouldn't  move  him." 

Barney's  wrath  was  red.  "So  sure,"  he  vowed, 
"as  he  fetches  his  pressgang  of  acrobats  on  that 
altar,  so  surely  will  I  either  march  off  it  or  brake 
their  necks  for  them  afore  they  go  on." 

Father  Dan  admitted  that,  certainly,  it  was  an 
innovation.  "But,  new  kings,  new  laws,  Barney. 
I  suppose  you  and  I  have  fallen  out  of  the  race. 
The  world  has  gone  on  and  left  us  behind.  Father 
Luke  assures  me  he's  only  doing  things  as  they're 
done  everywhere  now." 

"An'  upon  my  word,  Father  Dan,  it'll  not  sur- 
prise me — an'  I  don't  know  if  I'll  not  feel  that  it's 

[113] 


WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  GREEK 

your  desarvin' — if  this  new  pntleman  would,  the 
very  next  move,  ax  the  Bishop  to  have  the  both 
of  us  suspended,  bekase  you  haven't  got  the  latest 
way  of  savin'  sowls,  nor  me  the  newest  improve- 
ments in  Priests'  Boys!" 

If  it  was  to  save  his  life,  poor  harassed  Father 
Dan  could  not  hold  in  the  hearty  burst  of  laughter 
that  seized  and  shook  him.  But  Barney  turned 
short  and  marched  off  in  disgust. 

The  new  curate  selected  half  a  score  of  the 
brightest  parish  youths,  and  in  the  chapel  sacristy, 
in  the  evenings,  inducted  them  into  the  mysteries 
of  Mass-serving.  And  whenever  Barney,  on  lawful 
business  bent,  came  into  the  sacristy  on  such  occa- 
sions, the  students  eternally  got  in  his  way — with 
undesirable  results  for  them.  The  Priest's  Boy 
discovered  that  the  most  convenient  way  cf 
handling  acolytes  was  by  the  neck,  and  no  words 
wasted.  And  after  a  few  weeks'  practice  he  ac- 
quitted himself  with  admirable  deftness  in  the  new 
business. 

The  Priest's  Boy,  too  well  realizing  the  respect 
he  owed  the  Church,  dutifully  refrained  from 
handling  a  curate  as  he  would  an  acolyte.  Digni- 
fiedly,  he  maintained  towards  Father  Luke  an  atti- 
tude of  armed  neutrality.  At  Mass,  instinct  with 
proper  religious  feeling,  he  shut  his  mind  to  the 
individual  and  served  Father  Luke  with  the  like 

[114] 


WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  GREEK 

precision,  deftness,  and  dazzling  nonchalance  he 
would  Father  Dan.  Great,  then,  was  his  pained 
amazement  when,  one  day  that  he  thought  he 
had  acquitted  himself  with  even  more  brilliancy 
than  usual  (if  that  were  possible),  Father  Luke 
presumed  to  point  out  to  him  how  he  might  im- 
prove his  methods  1  He,  who  had  served  Mass 
for  priests  and  Bishops — ay,  and  a  Primate ! — 
when  Father  Luke  MacMinamin  was  little  known 
and  less  worth !  He,  who,  during  five  and  forty 
years'  daily  serving  of  Mass,  had  never  once  be- 
fore had  priest  or  dignitary  need  to  say:  "Barney, 
you  did  it  ill,"  till  his  path  was  crossed  by  this 
young  gentleman  to  whom  the  College  cobwebs 
were  still  clinging. 

The  Priest's  Boy,  too  dumbfounded  for  utter- 
ance to  speak,  listened  mechanically:  "Go  grace- 
fully, gently,  quietly  on  the  altar.  Don't  stagger 
up  and  down  it  as  if  you  were  coming  from  a  fair." 

Barney  gasped.  "What'U  it  be  next,  I  dunno?" 
he  thought  to  himself. 

Now,  if  there  was  one  point  in  the  serving  of 
Mass,  upon  his  style  in  which  the  Priest's  Boy 
particularly  prided  himself,  it  was  the  ringing  of 
the  altar-bell.  For  Barney,  after  patient  practice, 
had  acquired  the  art  of  making  the  bell  a  pleasure 
to  hear.  He  began  the  ringing  in  a  quick,  sharp, 
business-like  tone,  which  gradually  dropped  lower 
and   lower,    then   suddenly    and   startlingly   leapt 

[115] 


WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  GREEK 

higher  and  higher,  and  as  quickly  again  fell  down, 
down,  down,  dying  away  in  a  softly  dreamful, 
far-off  cadence,  till  more  startlingly  than  ever  it 
suddenly  shot  up  loud,  short,  and  sharp — and 
abruptly  stopped.  Barney  was  well  aware  that  he 
had  reduced  bell-ringing  to  an  art;  and  the  thought 
now  crossed  his  mind:  "I  wonder  when  he's  tired 
tellin'  me  my  faults,  will  he  at  laist  have  the  good 
breedin'  to  compliment  me  on  my  ringin'  o'  the 
bell?" 

"Then,"  the  new  curate  went  on,  "when  it  is 
necessary  to  ring  that  bell,  I  want  you  to  do  away 
with  the  eternal  and  nonsensical  clattering  you 
carry  on,  give  the  bell  two  or  three  little  tips,  and 
have  done  with  it."  Barney  was  so  surely  para- 
lyzed that  the  coup  de  grace  was  cruelly  super- 
fluous: "One  would  think  you  were  ringing  for 
an  auction!" 

After  Barney's  spirit  had  been  thus  insidiously 
sapped,  the  task  of  getting  his  acolytes  actually  on 
the  altar  was  made  easier  for  Father  Luke.  Yet 
he  proceeded  with  caution.  At  first  they  just  kept 
their  places  there,  and  joined  in  the  responses, 
leaving  the  active  duties  to  Barney.  The  Priest's 
Boy,  though  he  never  tried  to  hide  his  contempt 
for  his  unbidden  helpers,  still  did  nothing  more 
aggressive  than  merely  stepping  on  their  toes  when 
passing  opportunity  invited.  But  when,  after  a 
few  weeks,  one  of  them    (so  inspired  by  Father 

[116] 


WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  GREEK 

Luke,  who  thus  insinuated  the  wedge)  attempted 
to  ring  the  bell,  Barney  drew  him  such  a  whole- 
hearted slap  on  the  ear  as  awakened  from  his  sleep 
in  a  remote  corner  of  the  chapel  Parra  Beag,  who 
had  been  sitting  up  for  two  nights  with  a  sick 
cow,  and  caused  the  presumptuous  fellow  to  drop 
the  bell  with  a  clang,  whereupon  Barney,  seizing 
it,  bravely  rang  it  out  to  his  old  tune,  fixing  the 
squirming  aggressor  with  his  most  fearful  look, 
while  he  did  so. 

Father  Luke,  feeling  sorely  the  ignominy  that 
had  been  put  upon  him  and  his  servitor,  sought 
Father  Dan  that  very  evening,  and  spent  a  solid 
two  hours  closeted  with  his  parish  priest.  Then 
Barney  was  sent  for,  and  after  a  further  two  hours, 
a  treaty  was  concluded  whereby  the  Priest's  Boy 
was  to  suffer  Father  Luke  to  bring  upon  the  altar 
what  creatures  he  liked — even  the  Bacach  Ruadh 
if  he  wished,  Barney  declared — and  train  them  to 
be  a  parish  laughing-stock,  if  he  liked.  Barney 
was  not  to  be  asked  to  aggravate  himself  by  lend- 
ing them  the  colour  of  his  company.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  and  he  alone  was,  as  heretofore, 
to  serve  Mass  for  Father  Dan — and  continue  to 
dazzle  the  parish. 

And  the  Priest's  Boy,  prophesying  ills  unspeak- 
able, washed  his  hands  of  all  responsibility  hence- 
forward for  the  new  curate  and  his  "clan-jaffrey 
of  acrobats." 

[117] 


BUT  WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  TARTAR 

BUT  a  thorn  in  the  postmistress's  side  was  the 
Priest's  Boy.  Partly  because  of  his  exalted 
office,  but  chiefly,  perhaps,  because  it  was  born 
in  him,  Barney  was  a  domineering  fellow  who 
could  tolerate  no  tryanny  except  his  own.  He  was 
the  one  reckless  hero  in  the  parish  who  dared,  in 
broad  daylight,  and  with  the  full  knowledge  that 
an  incensed  postmistress's  eye  was  on  him,  walk 
forward  to  Nancy  Kelly's  window  with  exasperat- 
ing self-possession,  and  coolly  drop  his  letters  one 
by  one  into  the  slot,  calling  through  the  hole  after 
them:  "There's  two  o'  them  letters  for  Belfast, 
an'  wan  for  Letterkenny,  an'  wan  for  Amerikay — 
see  that  ye  send  them  off  quickly,  Nancy,  if  ye 
plaise." 

Plain  human  flesh  and  blood  was  never  meant 
to  stand  that. 

Ere  relations  had  become  too  strained  between 
the  postmistress  and  the  Priest's  Boy,  Nancy  had 
occasionally  condescended  to  question  Barney 
anent  Father  Dan's  correspondence.  "Barney, 
that  letter  I  give  ye  for  his  Riverence  the  other 
day  was  from  furrin'  parts,  an'  still  it  wasn't  an 
Amerikay    stamp    was    on    it?"      "That    letter," 

[«8] 


BUT  WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  TARTAR 

Barney  gravely  replied,  "was  from  the  Imp'ror  of 
the  Yalla  Say,  wantin'  to  know  how  ducks  was 
sellin'  here  be  the  pair  in  Donegal,  bekase  that 
he  was  goin'  to  send  his  youngest  son  to  Timbuc- 
too  to  dail  in  that  commodity."  This  uncalled- 
for  insolence  on  Barney's  part  put  Nancy  on  her 
dignity  for  months.  But  at  length  the  arrival  of 
a  letter  with  the  Rome  postmark  so  far  excited 
Nancy's  curiosity  that  she  deigned  to  stoop  again 
to  the  fellow.  "That,"  Barney  coolly  informed 
her,  "was  a  letter  from  no  less  nor  our  Holy 
Father  himself,  the  Pope  (may  Heaven  bliss  him, 
an'  prosper  his  pratie-garden!),  informin'  Father 
Dan  that  the  En'  o'  the  Worl'  starts  Chewsday 
come  eight  days  in  the  County  Wicklow,  an'  may 
be  expected  to  work  round  here  within  three  weeks 
at  the  fartherest." 

Nancy  Kelly  never  after  demeaned  herself  by 
questioning  the  low  fellow  on  such  subjects;  and, 
for  Barney's  sake,  you  hope  that  he  realized  his 
punishment  as  keenly  as  he  should. 

Often,  this  anarchist  (sure  he  was  little  better!) 
had  the  impudence  to  walk  in  on  the  heels  of 
Jimmy  the  Post,  and  stand  by  till  he  got  his  share 
of  the  mails.  And  if,  by  awkward  mismanage- 
ment, Nancy  permitted  him  a  glimpse  of  the  di- 
rections on  other  letters,  he  made  it  his  business 
to  send  word  to  the  fortunate  parties  that  there 

[119] 


BUT  WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  TARTAR 

was  a  letter  lyin'  at  Nancy's  for  them,  and  so  send 
them  trooping  down  on  the  postmistress  before  she 
had  had  time  to  examine  their  letters  with  the 
leisure  necessary  to  proper  enjoyment  of  the  work. 

He  lost  no  opportunity,  too,  of  aggravating 
Nancy.  When,  once,  she  handed  him  no  less  than 
four  letters  for  Father  Dan,  all  at  one  time,  Bar- 
ney, repressing  all  outward  signs  of  excitement, 
remarked  that  he  thought  "this  day  might  houl' 
up,  an'  be  a  gran'  hay  day,  if  the  wind  didn't 
work  back  at  twelve,"  slipping  the  letters  into  the 
pocket  of  his  long  blue  coat  with  the  dazzling  care- 
lessness of  a  personage  inured  to  the  receipt  of 
extraordinary  mails. 

For  Barney,  who  was  used  to  dominate,  couldn't 
bring  his  neck  to  bend  beneath  any  woman's  rod; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  considered  that  Nancy  Kelly, 
instead  of  expecting,  should  be  giving  him  and 
his  office  homage.  Nancy's  irreverent,  but  very 
expressive,  comment  on  this  was  just  "Tir- 
oodlum !"  accompanied  by  an  aggravating  finger- 
snap.    And  then  the  war  was  on. 

But,  though  Nancy  had  the  advantage  in  good 
staying  powers,  Barney's  dignified  reserve  was  too 
aggravating  for  any  woman  to  stand.  And  it 
looked  as  if  poor  Nancy  must  let  go  her  temper 
and  lose  the  day.  But  good  luck  came  to  her  aid. 
There  was  a  son  of  Johnnie  Brodbin's,  who  went 

[  120] 


BUT  WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  TARTAR 

to  the  States;  and,  having  a  taste  for  dabbling  in 
water-colours,  used  to  decorate  the  envelopes  of 
his  letters  to  Father  Dan  with  a  mani-coloured 
eagle,  bearing  in  its  beak  a  scroll  (also  elaborately 
variegated),  on  which  the  address  was  penned. 
Altogether,  this  decorative  envelope  was  a  dazzling 
work  of  art  to  all  of  you,  and  set  the  parish 
marvelling  at  the  genius  of  Johnnie's  son,  God 
bless  him !  But,  very  often,  Barney  was  sorely 
puzzled  to  know  why  the  envelope,  when  handed 
to  him,  was  disfigured  with  dirt — a  problem  which 
remained  unsolved  till  one  day,  walking  unex- 
pectedly into  Nancy's,  he  found  her  youngest 
squat  upon  the  floor,  amusing  itself  with  a  recently 
arrived  work  of  Manis  Brodbin's  art,  which 
served  the  purpose  of  keeping  the  baby  out  of  mis- 
chief whilst  Nancy  went  to  the  well! 

Barney  forgot  the  Priest's  Boy's  dignity  that 
day!  Nancy  retailed  to  the  neighbours  how  fero- 
ciously he  had  snatched  the  letter  out  of  the  inno- 
cent creature's  hand,  and  glared  at  the  helpless  in- 
fant as  if  he  would  like  to  wither  it  up  on  the 
spot;  and  how,  towards  herself,  he  behaved  like 
"an  onnatural,  oncultivated  bear." 

Barney,  when  he  regained  control  of  himself, 
returned  to  threaten  the  postmistress  with  all  the 
terrors  of  the  Church  of  which,  as  Priest's  Boy, 
he  was  a   humble   representative,    and  vowed   to 

[121] 


BUT  WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  TARTAR 

bring  down  upon  her  head  the  vengeance  of  Father 
Dan.  But  to  Barney's  dumbfounding,  Nancy 
again  snapped  her  fingers  at  him — snapped  her 
fingers! — and  said:  "That  for  both  you  an' 
Father  Dan!" 

Little  was  the  grass  that  grew  under  Barney's 
heels  then,  till  he  was  at  home  and  imparting 
to  Father  Dan  the  startling  intelligence.  When 
Barney  had  unburdened  himself,  Father  Dan 
helped  himself  generously  from  his  snuff-box,  of- 
fered it  to  Barney,  as  he  said:  "Barney,  me  boy, 
I'm  afraid  Nancy  Kelly's  past  prayin'  for." 
"But,"  Barney  remonstrated,  waving  the  snuff-box 
away,  "aren't  ye  goin'  for  to  punish  her  as  she 
desarves?"  "Indeed,  and  I  am  that,  Barney.  Do 
take  a  snuff,  man ;  it'll  do  ye  good.  I  mean  to  leave 
that  woman  to  the  torments  of  her  own  con- 
science." 

As  Barney  whisked  himself  out  of  Father  Dan's 
presence,  he  cried:  "If  every  varago  in  the  parish 
takes  to  snappin'  their  fingers  at  both  of  us,  it'll 
be  your  desarts !" 

He  next  threatened  to  invoke  upon  Nancy's 
doomed  head  the  powers  of  the  Postmaster  Gen- 
eral. But  Nancy  brazenly  laughed  this  threat  to 
scorn:  Barney  didn't  know  that  gentleman's  ad- 
dress; and,  besides,  even  if  he  did — if  Barney  Mee- 
han   had  the   impidence  to  dhrop   into  her  post- 

[  122] 


BUT  WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  TARTAR 

office  a  letter  containing  barefaced  insinuations 
about  herself — she  would  light  the  fire  with  said 
letter!  And  then  she  "would  just  like  to  see  him 
dare  to  darken  her  doore  with  his  forbidden  counte- 
nance, after!" 

So  Barney  was  checkmated  there.  He  then 
tried  to  stir  up  sedition  against  Nancy,  and  talked 
treason  all  round.  Finally,  when  he  thought  he 
had  the  country  ripe  for  it,  he  went  to  Ned  Carra- 
bin's  wake  of  Glen  Coagh  to  raise  the  standard 
of  rebellion.  With  the  exception  of  half  a  dozen 
of  those  old  wiseacres,  let-well-enough-alone  creat- 
ures, who  exist  in  every  parish,  Barney  here  found 
he  had  the  country  with  him.  Accordingly  it  was 
agreed  that  six  selected  men,  with  Barney  Mee- 
han  as  spokesman,  should  wait  upon  Nancy,  at  her 
post-office  after  Mass  on  the  following  Sunday, 
and  respectfully  but  firmly  state  their  grievances, 
and  demand  redress.  In  case  of  the  non-success 
of  the  embassy,  or  in  case  that — as  many  were 
pessimistic  enough  to  conjecture — the  ambassadors 
were  repelled  with  assault,  insult  and  contumely, 
it  was  not  exactly  clear  what  the  subsequent  pro- 
cedure would  be;  but  the  people  were  given  the 
distinct  impression  that  something  awful  would  fol- 
low; possibly  even  (it  was  hinted)  Jimminy  the 
Tailor,  who  constituted  himself  Barney's  lieuten- 
ant on  the  occasion,  would  himself  order  in  a  large 

[123] 


BUT  WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  TARTAR 

and  varied  assortment  of  postage  stamps,  and  de- 
prive Nancy  Kelly  of  every  vestige  of  her  trade. 
Barney  was  elated;  he  had  hot  dreamt  there  was 
so  much  genuine  and  admirable  spirit  in  the  parish; 
and  he  gave  Jimminy  and  his  fellow-conspirators 
to  understand  that  they  were  the  stuff  heroes  were 
made  of. 

Poor  Barney  had  not  allowed  for  the  pot-valour 
which,  he  should  have  known,  always  is  at  social 
gatherings.  Next  morning,  the  heroes  were  trip- 
ping over  each  other  to  find  who  would  be  first  to 
gain  immunity  by  disclosing  the  design  to  Nancy. 
Jimminy,  who,  Barney  thought,  should  have 
flourished  in  the  days  of  chivalry,  and  borne  a  lance 
in  brave  but  hopeless  causes,  was  first  though, 
And,  as  Barney  himself,  in  the  timid  mood  that 
will  possess  the  greatest  and  most  daring  of  men 
on  the  verge  of  a  great  crisis,  called  on  Nancy 
that  day  for  his  letters,  his  breath  was  taken  away 
when  Nancy,  looking  him  full  in  the  eye,  said,  with 
that  awful  calm  that  precedes  a  tornado:  "Bar- 
ney Meehan,  I'm  toul'  ye  were  at  Ned  Carrabin's 
wake  o'  Glen  Coagh  last  night?"  Barney  could 
only  gasp.  Nancy  waited  long  enough  to  let  her 
dire  meaning  sink  into  his  soul.  Then  she  said: 
"Barney  Meehan,  ye're  a  swindlin'  imposthure,  an' 
an  intherfarin'  vagabone  I"    And  she  followed  him 

[  124] 


BUT  WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  TARTAR 

with  her  terrible  eye,  as  he,  dumbfounded,  slunk 
out  of  the  door. 

On  the  Sunday  after,  the  Priest's  Boy,  having 
found  his  nerve  again,  descended  upon  the  boys, 
when  they  had  gathered  before  Mass,  outside  the 
Chapel  gate.  He  turned  upon  them  the  bitter 
vials  of  his  wrath,  and  denounced  them  as  "crawl- 
ers," rolling  the  word  with  sweet  relish  on  his 
tongue.  "You's  is  cr-r-rawlers,"  he  said,  "cr-r-r- 
rawlers,  and  you's  '11  never  be  anything  but 
cr-r-r-rawlers !  An'  you,  Jimminy"  (the  pinch- 
faced  Jimminy  winced),  "you're  the  pr-r-rince  of 
cr-r-rawlers !" 

But  storm  at  these  people  as  he  might,  and  cow 
them  as  he  might  and  did,  he  had  to  confess  to 
himself  in  the  anguish  of  his  heart  that  he  feared 
— feared  to  meet  Nancy  Kelly's  terrible  eye,  and 
return  her  defiant  glance  again. 

For  Barney's  spirit  was  broken.  Temporarily, 
of  course,  that  is. 


[125] 


YOUR  POSTMISTRESS 

IN  having  a  lady  like  Nancy  Kelly  so  suited  for 
filling  the  office  of  Postmistress  at  Knockagar, 
you  and  yours  were  signally  blessed. 

Of  course,  in  formal  compliance  with  the  Regu- 
lations, Nancy  had  a  slot  in  the  window,  ostensi- 
bly for  the  purpose  of  posting  your  letters.  But 
hardly  any  of  you  had  the  hardihood — the  bare- 
faced impidence,  Nancy  styled  it — to  make  use  of 
a  convenience,  which  manifestly  implied  distrust 
of  the  inmate.  Under  cover  of  night,  or  taking 
mean  advantage  of  Nancy's  temporary  absence 
(perhaps  she  had  run  over  to  Jamie  Mor's  to  ask 
the  time  on  the  clock,  or  down  to  Toal  a-Gal- 
lagher's  to  learn  the  designs  of  Neil  Mulrinny, 
who  went  up  the  road  like  a  whirlwind  an  hour 
ago,  without  tellin'  man  or  mortal  where  he  was 
going),  unprincipled  people  among  you  had 
dropped  letters  into  the  slot  in  the  window.  But 
these  people  invariably  lived  to  regret  the  insult 
offered  to  an  unoffending  woman.  Nancy  held 
over  such  a  letter,  till,  by  linking  bits  and  scraps 
of  circumstantial  evidence  and  calling  in  experts 
upon  handwriting,  she  ran  the  rascal  to  earth,  and 
compelled  confession  and  abject  apology — when, 

fl26] 


YOUR  POSTMISTRESS 

however,  both  were  too  late  to  mitigate  her  scath- 
ing denunciation. 

"There's  a  doore  to  me  house,  built  big  enough 
to  let  in  both  the  letter  an'  the  letter-carrier;  an' 
if  I'm  good  enough  to  send  off  their  letters  to  the 
other  en'  o'  the  worl'  an'  further,  I'm  surely  fit 
for  to  have  them  handed  into  me  hand."  Thus 
Nancy  expounded  the  ethics  of  letter-posting. 
"There's  no  plague  to  me  house.  An'  I'm  sartint 
there's  none  can  cast  up  to  me  that  I  ever  quesk- 
ened  them  what  was  on  the  insides  of  their  let- 
ters." This  last  statement  was  strictly  true. 
Nancy  never  did  ask  anyone  of  you  concerning 
the  contents  of  your  letter — yet,  strange  to  say, 
there  were  few  of  you  brave  enough  to  hand  Nancy 
Kelly  a  letter,  and  meet  her  eye  unflinchingly,  and 
then  turn  and  walk  out  without  volunteering  infor- 
mation which  Nancy  would  "sooner  put  her  fut  in 
the  fire  than  ax." 

When  you,  who  knew  your  business,  went  in  to 
Nancy's  post-office  with  a  letter,  you  first  swapped 
salutations  with  Nancy,  and  then  accepted  the  prof- 
fered chair,  and  gave  and  got  the  news  of 
your  respective  parts  of  the  parish  before  remark- 
ing that  you  were  thinking  of  posting  a  letter.  If 
Nancy  then  nodded  approbation — as  almost  al- 
ways she  graciously  did — you  produced  your  let- 
ter, in  the  leisurely  manner  becoming  a  gentleman, 

[127] 


YOUR  POSTMISTRESS 

turning  it  round  and  over,  informed  her  that  it 
was  to  be  sent  to  Ioway  in  the  States,  to  Dubuque, 
to  young  Jimmy.  Nancy,  by  repeated  nods  of  the 
head,  signified  that  she  noted  all  this,  and  would 
remember  it.  You  then  handed  it  to  her,  inquiring 
how  much  the  damage  would  be  to  bring  it  to 
Ioway.  And  you  went  on  to  enlighten  Nancy  upon 
Jimmy's  affairs — in  particular  how  he  stood  finan- 
cially— and  informed  her  of  the  subject-matter  of 
the  present  epistle. 

You  made  sure  to  thank  her  and  express  your 
sense  of  gratitude  for  the  obligation  she  put  you 
under,  before  taking  your  leave. 

There  was  not  any  use  trying  to  equivocate  con- 
cerning the  contents  of  a  letter,  for  Nancy  could 
read  any  man  "like  a  ha'penny  book,"  as  she  said 
herself,  though  he  were  as  deep  as  a  tailor's 
thimble. 

Jimmy  the  Post  brought  out  the  mails  (often 
a  whole  dozen,  and  sometimes  as  many  as  sixteen 
and  even  eighteen  letters)  to  Nancy's  post-office 
from  Donegal,  once  a  week.  None  of  you,  of 
course,  had  the  impertinence  to  go  looking  for  a 
letter  on  arrival  day;  and,  indeed,  if  you  did,  your 
journey  would  be  deservedly  fruitless. 

The  right  of  one  day's  grace  wherein  Nancy 
might  scrutinize  the  superscription  and  post- 
marks, and  speculate  upon  the  probable  contents 

[128] 


YOUR  POSTMISTRESS 

of  letters,  was  a  prerogative  which  not  even  the 
most  punctilious  of  you  would  dream  of  denying 
your  postmistress.  You  well  remember,  though, 
how  Charlie  the  Nudger  one  time,  looking  for  his 
letter,  walked  in  on  the  heels  of  Jimmy  the  Post. 
And  how  Nancy  withered  him  up  with  one  look, 
and  dismissed  him  with  the  query:  "A  letter? 
Musha,  who  the  dickens  do  ye  think  would  send 
the  likes  o'  you  a  letter?"  And  by  way  of  ad- 
monition to  Charlie,  and  to  all  the  precipitate  in 
the  district,  she  very  properly  (as  you  think)  de- 
livered him  his  letter  fourteen  days  after  its  ar- 
rival. It  contained  his  passage  money  to  the 
States.  And  Charlie  thanked  Heaven  from  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  that  he  was  soon  to  be  beyond 
Nancy  Kelly's  jurisdiction. 

When  Nancy  did  gracefully  bestow  a  letter  on 
an  enquirer,  common  politeness,  of  course — not  to 
mention  Nancy's  eye — required  that  the  letter 
should  there  and  then  be  opened,  and  its  contents 
discussed.  Pathrick  Martin  of  the  Mullens, 
though,  was  an  unprincipled  man,  and  when  he 
got  the  letter  one  time  from  Annie,  from  Cincin- 
nati (which,  as  he  anticipated,  contained  confi- 
dences about  Annie's  trials  with  her  Dutch  hus- 
band, who  drank),  he  slipped  the  missive  into  his 
pocket  with  an  assumption  of  unconsciousness  that 
would,  in  an  honourable  cause,   have   done   him 

[  129] 


YOUR  POSTMISTRESS 

credit;  and  then  made  a  bold  attempt  to  retire 
under  cover  of  an  irregular  fire  of  remarks  upon 
indifferent  subjects.  And  as,  despite  Nancy's  dry, 
monosyllabic  replies,  he  still  continued  to  edge 
towards  the  door,  she  finally  brought  her  cold  gray 
eye  to  bear  upon  him,  with  such  deadly  precision, 
that  Pathrick  in  another  moment,  alive  to  the  ex- 
tent of  his  meanness,  dropped  into  a  provincial 
chair,  remembered  the  letter  with  suspicious  sud- 
denness, drew  it  out,  and  implored  Nancy  to  do 
him  the  particular  favour  of  reading  it  for  him. 
And  the  case  of  poor  Dan  Mac  a-Nirn,  'tis 
well  you  recall.  Dan  made  a  sweetheart  for 
himself  when  he  was  hired  up  the  Pettigo 
way.  As  she  was  both  wise  and  well-to-do, 
Dan,  when  he  returned  home,  resolved  to  corre- 
spond with  her  with  matrimonial  intentions.  Un- 
der protest,  Nancy  Kelly  despatched  two  of  poor 
Dan's  love  missives,  and  delivered  to  him  two  re- 
plies. But  she  put  down  her  foot  when  Dan  came 
along  with  a  third — an  epistle  upon  which  he  had 
had  Jimminy  the  Tailor  working  for  three  nights, 
and  which  had  been  by  the  proud  author  pro- 
nounced "a  triumph  of  jaynius."  She  got  Dan 
seated  in  the  corner,  and  stood  over  him  with  arms 
akimbo.  And,  "I'll  tell  ye  what  it  is,  Dan 
Mac-a-Nirn,"  she  said,  "ye're  only  makin'  a  play- 
sham  of  both  me  and  me  post-office.    I'll  neither 

[130] 


YOUR  POSTMISTRESS 

take  nor  give  any  more  blatherskiten'  letters.  If 
every  other  fool  in  the  parish  begun  takin'  afther 
you,  every  time  they're  in  a  coortin'  way,  my  six 
poun'  a  year  would  be  hard-'arned  money.  Go 
away  about  your  business  now,  Dan  Mac-a-Nirn, 
go  home  with  ye;  and  post  that  letther  that's  in 
your  fist  behind  the  fire.  An'  if  ye  want  a  wife 
(though,  in  troth,  when  ye  have  your  oul'  mother 
an'  your  two  sisthers  and  your  aunt  and  your 
grandmother  to  look  afther,  ye're  marri'd  enough) 
— but  if  ye  must  have  a  wife,  look  about  ye  in 
your  own  neighbourhood,  'an'  ye'll  get  wan  be 
waggin'  your  finger.  There's  Hughie  Shan's 
daughter  Marg'et — why  don't  ye  take  her? 
Or  Shusie  Doherty  of  the  Roadside — why  don't 
ye  marry  Shusie?  Away  with  ye  now;  an'  take 
a  good  advice  when  it's  given  ye  for  nothin' !" 
Dan,  poor  fellow,  sighed,  and  went  home,  and 
married  Hughie  Shan's  daughter,  Marg'et.  And 
a  poor  girl  above  at  Pettigo  probably  for  long 
and  long  walked  away  heartless  from  her  post- 
office,  and  doesn't  know  to  this  day  that  'twas  the 
tyranny  of  Nancy  Kelly,  and  not  the  fickleness  of 
Dan,  that  left  her  pining. 

Of  course,  to  open  and  read  all  newspapers  with- 
out the  necessity  of  the  addressee's  presence  was 
a  prerogative  assumed  by  Nancy  naturally.  Like- 
wise the  privilege  of  giving  the  perusal  of  them  to 

[131] 


YOUR  POSTMISTRESS 

favoured  neighbours,  before  it  was  sent  to  your- 
self, for  whom  the  sender  designed  it. 

Michael  Meehan  when  he  went  to  the  Far 
West  used  to  send  home  The  Rocky  Mountain 
Lightning  Streak  to  his  father  Teddy  with  a  regu- 
larity that  was  particularly  gratifying  to  the  post- 
mistress. She  did  not  usually  detain  The  Light- 
ning Streak  more  than  three  or  four  days  on  its 
way.  But,  on  one  week  it  •contained  an  uncon- 
cluded  article  upon  that  great  Irish-American 
General,  Thomas  Francis  Meagher,  which  so  whet- 
ted Teddy  Meehan's  appetite  for  the  remainder 
that  he  brushed  his  coat  and  put  on  a  clean  collar, 
and  took  his  stick  in  his  fist  and  travelled  three 
times  in  the  following  fortnight  all  the  way  from 
his  home  in  Tullyfinn  into  Nancy's  post-office  in 
Knockagar  to  enquire  for  the  subsequent  issue. 
On  the  third  occasion,  though  Teddy  observed 
with  the  corner  of  his  eagle  eye  that  Nancy's  whole 
soul  was  engrossed  in  an  article  in  no  other  than 
The  Lightning  Streak,  she  hurriedly  replied  to  him 
that  it  hadn't  come,  and  buried  herself  in  the 
paper  again.  Teddy,  poor  man,  sat  him  down  for 
a  while,  torn  by  inward  conflict.  His  anxiety  for 
the  paper,  however,  got  the  better  of  his  discre- 
tion, and,  desperately  nerving  himself,  he  said: 
"But,  Nancy,  a  chara,  isn't  that  The  Lightnin' 
Streak  that  ye're  readin' ?"     Nancy,  lowering  the 

[132] 


YOUR  POSTMISTRESS 

paper,  looked  at  Teddy  for  a  full  minute  with  an 
outraged  look.  "Teddy  Meehan,"  she  then  said, 
"let  me  tell  ye — what  ye  don't  seem  for  to  know — 
that  it's  the  height  of  ill-breedin'  to  look  over  any 
wan's  shouldher  when  they're  readin'l" 

And  as  Teddy,  all  abashed,  gathered  himself 
away,  she  added,  by  way  of  parting  salute : 

"Small  wondher  that  ye're  ashamed  o'  your- 
self." She  watched  after  him  scornfully  till  he  had 
slunk  round  the  bend  of  the  road;  and  then,  with 
a  pained  and  injured  look  on  her  countenance,  re- 
sumed perusal  of  The  Lightning  Streak. 


[  U3] 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 

NOT  a  long  way  from  your  heathery,  happy 
Knockagar  lay  the  fruitful  valley  of 
Braggy,  where  toiled  like  slaves  the  thrifty 
descendants  of  those  Scotch  for  whose  benefiting 
your  ancestors  were,  long  ago,  driven  to  the  moors. 
But  if  you  supplied  them  with  fat  lands  once,  they 
have  supplied  you  and  yours  with  no  stint  of  funny 
incident,  anecdote  and  character  ever  since — mak- 
ing windy  hearths  warm  and  cold  nights  com- 
fortable. 

In  your  own  day,  for  example,  they  gave  you 
for  your  delectation  the  Bachelors  of  Braggy — the 
brothers  Peter,  Paul  and  Richard  Lowry. 

While  their  old  mother  lived,  of  course,  the 
idea  of  bringing  any  other  woman  into  the  house 
was  as  far  from  them  as  the  far-lands  of  Brenter. 
For  they  had  all  the  plenitude  of  niggardliness 
and  lack  of  poetry  that  their  Scotch  ancestors 
brought  over  (their  only  belongings)   to  Ireland. 

When  the  neighbours,  on  a  rare  occasion,  caught 
the  Bachelors  of  Braggy  at  a  wake  or  festivity  in 
Knockagar,  they,  in  waggish  mood,  would  match- 
make  for  them. 

"Arrah,  Pether  Lowry,  isn't  it  the  shame  for 

[134] 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 

yourself,  and  for  Paul,  and  for  Richard,  there  be- 
side ye,  that  wan  of  you's  hasn't  yet  put  the  word 
to  a  woman!" 

Peter  and  Paul  and  Richard  would  all  hissle  in 
their  chairs  for  the  uncomfortableness  of  the 
topic.  But  all  eyes  in  the  wake-house  were  now 
on  them  quizzically,  so  Peter  would  answer 
snarlingly : 

"What  the  divil  do  we  want  with  a  woman?" 

"Ay?"  from  Paul  and  "Ay?"  from  Richard. 

"Well,  ye  know,  it's  a  wee  waikness  some  men 
has — to  be  fond  of  the  girls." 

"Well,  we  aren't  fond  o'  them,  and  wouldn't 
give  a  barleycorn  there  wasn't  a  girl  atween  here 
and  Halyfax." 

"Yis!"     "Yis!"  from  Richard  and  Paul. 

"But  ye  know  yourself,  Pether,  and  can't  deny, 
a  woman's  an  oncommon  handy  thing  about  a 
house?" 

"Handy?  Ah  !  as  a  conthrairy  pig  (not  mainin' 
any  comparishon)  that'll  go  every  way  but  the 
way  ye  want.  Besides,  haven't  we  our  oul' 
mother?" 

"Right,  Pether!"  "Right,  Pether!"  from  the 
other  brothers. 

"Still  and  all,  a  mother,  ye  know,  isn't  every- 
thing to  a  man?" 

"If  a  man  depends  on  anyone  else  nor  himself 

[i35] 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 

to  be  the  remainder,  he'll  depend  on  a  rotten  rush. 
And  a  wife  and  a  mother  in  the  wan  house  'ud  be 
as  pleasant  company  as  spittin'  cats." 

"But  the  wife  'ill  be  with  a  man,  Pether,  when 
the  mother's  gone." 

"Then  God  help  the  man!" 

"God  help  him !"  from  Paul,  and  "God  help 
him !"  from  Richard. 

"Now,  there's  Marg'et  McClane  above  in 
Altidoo,  and  she'd  jump  at  the  offer  of  any  wan  of 
the  three  of  you's." 

"It's  thankful  we  are  to  both  yourself  and 
Marg'et;  but,  as  ye  seem  to  have  an  inth'rest  in 
her,  better  not  let  her  jump  for  feerd  she  might 
miss." 

"For  feerd  she  might  miss — yis!"  choired 
Richard  and  Paul. 

"A  fine,  stout,  sthrappin'  girl,  on  the  aisy  side 
of  fifty-five;  and  a  fine  hand  at  beetlin'  praties  and 
carin'  calves." 

But  poor  Peter's  temper  would,  despite  des- 
perate efforts,  give  out: 

"Och,  to  the  divil  with  Marg'et  McClane  and 
her  calves !  We  don't  want  her !  We  don't  want 
no  woman  !  And  if  we  did  want  wan,  we  wouldn't 
ax  you  to  make  her  for  us !" 

"Right  ye  are,  Pether!"  "Right  ye  are!"  say 
the  brothers. 

[136] 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 

As  predicted,  it  came  to  pass  that  the  mother 
died.  Then,  Richard,  as  he  was  the  youngest, 
was  voted  into  the  mother's  place,  and  had  to  milk, 
wash,  cook  and  make  the  butter.  After  a  time, 
however,  he  discovered  that  they  were  not  far 
astray  who  had  suggested  that  a  woman  was  a 
mortial  handy  convenience  around  a  house,  and 
he  dumbfounded  his  brothers  by  announcing  his 
discovery — under  his  breath — one  night. 

So  persistent,  however,  became  Richard  in  push- 
ing his  propaganda  that  Peter  and  Paul,  after 
many  secret  consultations,  consented  that,  even  at 
the  cost  of  their  peace  of  mind,  Richard  must  be 
humoured. 

So  they  said  to  Richard:  "It's  a  poor  thing 
that  we  must  fetch  in  any  man's  daughter  to  sup- 
port her." 

"No  man's  daughter  comes  in  here,"  Richard 
said,  "unless  she  fetches  her  support  with  her." 

"Humm!  Then  fire  away,  Richard;  since  ye 
must  have  your  way.  Where  are  ye  goin'  to  rise 
your  woman?" 

"Mv  woman?  Faith  it's  not  me's  goin'  to  take 
her,  but  wan  o'  yourselves.    /  don't  want  her." 

"Faith  and  I'm  very  sure  it's  not  me  that  'ill  take 
her,"  said  Peter. 

"And  I'll  give  me  davy  it  isn't  me,"  quoth  Paul. 

So  Richard  made  the  whistling  sound  of  a  man 

[i37  3 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 

who  has  found  a  cul  de  sac  where  he  was  certain  of 
a  free  passage. 

"And  what  then?"  said  Richard. 

"Richard  a  stoir,  it's  often  ye  heerd  our  poor 
mother  (God  rest  her!)  say:  'Let  him  calls  for 
the  tune  pay  the  piper!'  " 

"I'm  young  and  green,  boys"  (Richard  would 
be  forty-seven  by  Hallowmass  night),  "and  I'm 
no  ways  suited  to  manage  a  woman,"  he  said 
pleadingly. 

"Well,  there  ye  are."  For  neither  Peter  nor 
Paul  was  anxious  to  help  them  out  of  a  dilemma 
into  which  stubbornness  had  led  him : 

"But,   boys " 

"  'As  ye  made  your  bed,  ye  must  lie  on  it,'  " 
said  they,  quoting  again  from  their  mother's  store 
of  saws. 

There  was  nothing  left  to  Richard  but  to  ac- 
cept the  inevitable;  and  he  reluctantly  resolved 
to  bear  it,  for  the  benefit  of  the  house,  with  what 
grace  he  could. 

As  the  next  step  was  to  find  a  suitable  woman 
for  Richard,  the  brothers  agreed  to  take  counsel 
with  the  Bacach*  Gasta  (the  swift-footed  beggar- 
man.)  So  the  next  time  the  Bacach  Gasta  came 
that  way  and  dropped  his  wallets  in  Lowrys'  for 
his  usual  night's  sojourn,  he  was  taken  into  confi- 

[138] 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 

dence  after  supper,  and  asked  to  procure  a  good 
wife  for  Richard.  And  the  requirements  were 
catalogued  for  him. 

"The  notion  o'  marryin'  is  sthrong  on  Richard," 
Paul  informed  the  Bacach. 

He  looked  Richard  up  and  down,  then  said: 

"Well,  that's  neither  shame  nor  blame.  He's 
come  to  the  time  o'  day." 

"In  troth  it's  wan  of  ourselves  he  wanted  to 
take  the  woman." 

"Which  wasn't  wan  bit  fair,"  said  the  beggar- 
man.  "The  young  heart  always  for  the  hard 
road." 

"In  your  travels  do  ye  think  ye  could  pick  up 
a  suitable  wife  for  us?" 

"I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it." 

"Ye  know  just  the  kind  of  wife  we  want?" 

"I  have  a  brave  guess." 

"A  fine,  sthrong,  sthrappin',  agricultural 
woman,"  said  Peter. 

"Ay." 

"No  frills  or  foldherols,"  said  Paul. 

"No  figgery-foys  whatsomiver,"  said  Peter. 

"She  must  be  'holsome'  (wholesome),"  said 
Richard. 

"And  as  hardy  as  a  harrow-pin,"  said  Peter. 

"No  objection  if  her  countenance  is  well- 
favoured,"  said  Richard. 

[i39] 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 


<(\ 


'Bacach,"  said  Peter  with  indignant  warmth, 
"she  may  be  as  ill-lookin'  as  the  divil's 
gran'mother." 

"Don't  send  any  chiny  doll  here,"  said  Paul. 

Said  Richard:  "I  mean,  for  ins'ance,  Bacach, 
if  ye  are  in  swithers  about  two  weemen,  both 
equally  good  in  every  other  way,  but  wan  of  them 
havin'  the  advantage  of  the  other  in  looks " 


ar 


Then,"  said  Peter,  "sen'  us  the  ugliest  o'  the 
two,  by  all  manner  o'  mains." 

"The  uglier  the  woman,  the  better  the  house- 
keeper," Paul  added. 

"And  the  more  savin',  and  the  less  she'll  throw 
out  upon  fine  clothes,"  quoth  Peter. 

"If  she's  shapely,"  hazarded  Richard  to  the 
envoy,  "don't  hold  that  again'  her." 

"Shapely,"  snapped  Peter.  "Ay,  let  her  be 
shapely  as  the  milk  churn — a  dependable  pat- 
thern." 

"None  o'  these  ornaments  for  us,"  said  Paul, 
"that  laive  ye  tremblin'  lest  they'd  break  in  the 
middle." 

"The  woman  ye  pick  must  have  money — a  good 
penny  of  it,"  said  Peter. 

"Or  Ian',"  said  Paul.     "Of  course,"  said  Peter. 

"  'Tis  good  worldly  wisdom,"  said  the  Bacach, 
with  an  arch  look  that  was  lost  on  the  boys,  "to 
marry  the  money,  and  bid  the  wife  to  the  weddin'." 

[  Ho  J 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 

"She  must  be  come  to  years  of  discretion,"  said 

Paul. 

"And  have  the  most  of  a  couple  of  score  years 
of  work  in  her  still,"  said  Peter. 

"She  must  be  able  and  willin'  to  work,"  said 
Paul. 

"To  work  like  a  nigger,"  said  Peter. 

"If  she's  a  bit  youngish,  she'll  be  the  com- 
panionabler,"  said  Richard. 

"A  bit  ouldish,  Bacach,  and  she'll  be  the  sensi- 
bler,"  said  Peter  tartly. 

The  Bacach  Gasta  was  nodding  assent  to  all. 

"She  must  be  as  wise  as  a  fox." 

"And  as  close  as  a  male-chist." 

"She  must  understand  all  about  bringin'  up 
young  calves  and  pigs,"  said  Peter. 

"And  about  doctorin'  sick  cattle,"  said  Paul. 

"She  can't  be  too  sthrong,"  Paul  added. 

"Sthrong  enough  to  toss  a  bull,"  said  Peter. 

"And  kindly,"  interpolated  poor  Richard. 

"Kindly!    Pagh !"  said  Paul. 

"Sevair  enough  to  sour  crame,  if  ye  like,"  said 
Peter. 

"Now  do  ye  know  what  we  want?"  said  Paul. 

"Yis,  to  the  nail  on  her  little  finger,"  said  the 
Bacach  Gasta,  passing  the  pipe  to  Peter. 

"Well,  keep  your  eyes  open  then,"  said  Peter, 
"when  ye're  up  in  the   Dhrimholm  parish.     Out 

[Hi] 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 

of  there   comes   the  best   scantlin'   of  weemen   I 
know." 

"They're  companionabler  down  the  shore  side 
o'  the  parish,"  said  Richard. 

"They're  hardier  back  the  mountain  way,"  said 
Paul. 

"The  worst  woman  in  Dhrimholm  is  worth  her 
mait,"  said  the  Bacach.  "This  is  Chewsday.  I'll 
be  up  here  again  Sathurday.  I  have  a  likely  couple 
or  three  in  me  eye,  and  I'll  see  if  I  can't  fix  you's 
up  in  wan." 

The  Bacach  Gasta  picked  out  for  them,  in 
Dhrimholm,  three  women,  one  after  the  other; 
but  the  first  of  these  was  rejected  as  unsuitable, 
because,  when  they  went  to  see  her  and  she  set 
about  making  tea  for  them,  she  cast  out  the  old 
tea-leaves,  which,  as  they  observed,  "would  have 
taken  a  lovely  grip  o'  the  second  water."  So, 
after  an  adjournment  to  the  end  of  the  house,  for 
consultation,  poor  Richard  was  unwillingly  dele- 
gated to  carry  in  to  her  the  verdict  that,  while 
they  considered  her  an  uncommon  good  woman, 
they  regretted  she  would  not  suit  them.  And  they 
passed  on  to  the  next. 

This  second  was  rejected  because  Paul,  having 
taken  a  stolen  glimpse  into  a  band-box  in  her  house, 
saw  that  she  owned  a  hat  with  feathers — which 

[142] 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 

signified  that  "she'd  let  consait  fly  away  with  her 
cash." 

The  third  woman,  however,  Sarah  Bell  Baskin, 
ingratiated  herself  with  them;  for  she  carried  pots, 
and  fed  pigs  and  cows,  and  carded  wool,  and 
brought  in  a  creel  of  turf  whilst  they  interviewed 
her  in  snatches.  And  she  baked  bread  at  one  end 
of  the  table,  chatting  them,  whilst  they  drank  tea 
at  the  other.  So,  upon  a  short  consultation,  Sarah 
Bell,  with  her  hundred-pound  fortune,  was 
accepted. 

Of  course,  Richard  had  objected  that  she  did 
not  look  as  "quate"  (quiet)  as  should  the  ideal 
he  sought.  But  Peter  and  Paul  frowned  him  down. 
"She'll  be  quate  enough,  in  throth,  after  we've 
taken  twelve  months'  work  out  of  her,"  Paul  as- 
sured him. 

"We've  consented  to  have  a  wife  to  humour 
ye,  and  taken  the  divil's  own  throuble  to  pick  her 
for  ye.  If  ye  don't  take  Sarah  Bell  Baskin,  the 
sarra  a  wife  ever  ye'll  see,  by  our  consent,  if  there 
was  a  hurrycane  of  them  hailed  again'  the  door." 

"Oh,  then,  if  she  plaises  you's,  she'll  plaise  me," 
Richard  sighed. 

And  so  she  should  after  all.  For  when  the 
marriage  license  was  procured  by  the  three,  and 
brought  home  by  the  three,  Jemmy  Managhan  dis- 
covered that  'twas  Peter's  name  was  therein  re- 

[Hi] 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 

corded:  for  Peter,  having  acted  as  spokesman,  his 
name  was  asked  and  given  without  thought,  and 
entered. 

"This  is  a  nice  how-d'-ye-do,"  said  Peter. 

"Well,  we  can't  be  goin'  back  another  seven- 
mile  journey,  and  then,  as  likely  as  not,  pay  for  a 
new  license,"  said  Paul. 

"Sure  it's  all  the  same,"  said  the  magnanimous 
Richard. 

So  Peter,  heaving  a  sigh,  resolved  to  abide  by 
his  own  blunder.  And  Sarah  Bell,  for  her 
part,  did  not  mind.  She  was  marrying  into  a  good 
sittin'  down. 

Though  on  the  wedding-day  people  said  the 
Lowrys  had  never  been  known  to  go  to  church 
before,  they  themselves  said  that  was  untrue.  For 
they  had  been  to  church  on  the  day  they  were 
christened.  And  Paul,  moreover,  had  gone  into 
it  one  evening  Sam  Coulter,  the  sexton,  had  it 
open,  in  hope  of  raising  sport  with  his  rat-terrier. 

As,  while  they  were  in  the  vestry  consulting  and 
getting  instructed  for  the  ordeal,  it  was  found  a 
crowd  of  the  unregenerate  ones  of  the  parish  had 
assembled  outside  with  the  certain  intention  of  giv- 
ing the  Bachelors  of  Braggy  a  warm  reception 
when  they  should  emerge  one  Bachelor  less,  the 
Minister  advised  them  that  the  ceremony  be  post- 

[  144] 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 

poned  for  peace  sake.  The  Bachelors  thought  well 
of  the  wisdom  of  this. 

But  Sarah  Bell  was  not  in  procrastinating  mood. 
She  knew  the  proverb  about  a  bird  in  the 
hand.  "I  tell  ye  what  it  is,  boys,"  said  she,  "either 
the  marriage  is  to  be  now  or  niver.  If  it's  to  be 
now,  it'll  be  now;  and  if  it's  to  be  niver,  it'll  be 
niver!"  After  launching  the  ultimatum,  she 
paused  for  their  decision. 

"Then  it'll  be  now,"  said  the  Bachelors. 

And,  by  taking  the  near-cut  across  fields  with 
his  bride,  the  strategical  Peter  disappointed  the 
rascals  who,  for  a  full  hour  after,  were  keeping  a 
reception  warm,  outside  the  church  gate. 

Richard  had  not  been  altogether  wrong  when 
he  said  he  did  not  consider  Sarah  Bell  "quate" 
enough  for  him.  He  had  proved  this  experiment- 
ally. Paul  discovered  it.  Peter,  alas,  discovered 
it.  It  took  three  days  to  bring  it  home  to  them 
with  force.  Sarah  Bell,  herself,  with  the  aid  of 
a  three-legged  stool,  supplied  the  necessary  force. 
In  a  week  the  peace  of  the  Lowry  household  was 
irretrievably  wrecked — also  most  of  the  crockery- 
ware,  and  the  more  portable  articles  of  furniture 
likewise,  and  Richard's  right  arm,  some  of  Paul's 
teeth,  and  poor  Peter's  head. 

In  three  weeks  Sarah  Bell  Baskin,  leaving  them 
her  left-handed  blessing,  took  her  hundred  pounds 

[I45l 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY 

and  her  departure,  and  returned  to  the  house  of 
her  father. 

On  the  night  after  she  left,  the  three  brothers 
sat  around  the  fire,  smoking  in  turn.  And,  after 
a  long  silence,  Peter  spoke,  looking  severely  at 
Richard,  who  cowered.     Peter  said: 

"Now,  that  chapture's  over  and  done  with 
(from  the  depth  o'  me  soul,  God  be  thankitl),  and 
let  us  hope — let  us  hope — we'll  niver  again  hear 
another  such  schame." 

"Niver  1"  said  Paul  emphatically.  "Niver,  we 
hope  I"  and  he  gazed  at  Richard  with  a  sidelong 
look  of  scathing  rebuke. 

Poor  Richard  looked  into  the  fire  and  sighed. 


[146] 


THE  MASTHER 

THE  first  time  that  you  ambitioned  being  a 
schoolmaster  was  when,  on  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing before  Mass,  taking  your  ease  with  the 
crowds  on  the  green  sward  of  the  chapel  yard,  you 
saw  Masther  Maguire  chatting  Father  Dan  up 
and  down  the  yard — and  not  the  least  bit  nervous. 
'Twas  then  was  brought  home  to  you  with  thunder- 
bolt suddenness  the  great  man  a  schoolmaster  must 
be  entirely.  And  as  suddenly  you  resolved: 
"  Tis  a  Masther  I'll  be." 

You  were  six,  rising  seven,  then.  When  you 
were  thirteen,  you  smiled  resignedly  at  the  temerity 
of  youth.  Maturity  of  judgment  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  had  now  taught  you  that  the 
schoolmaster,  climax  of  all  human  ambition — bar- 
ring the  priest,  of  course,  which  was  a  touch  above 
the  climax — was  far  as  the  apples  of  Eden  be- 
yond the  reach  of  common  mortals  like  yourself, 
who,  although  usually  holding  head  of  the  class, 
were  but  a  herder  of  sheep,  digger  of  potatoes  and 
shearer  of  corn. 

But  as  you  shore  your  corn  or  herded  your  sheep 
on  the  hills  of  Donegal  on  wonderful  mornings 
when  you  watched  the  great,  red  sun  roll  over  the 

[i47] 


THE  MASTHER 

shoulder  of  Cruach  Gorm,  your  mind  was  con- 
stantly reverting  to  that  wild  dream  of  the  irre- 
sponsible youth  of  six,  rising  seven.  Excusing  him 
on  account  of  his  youth,  you,  all  the  same,  found 
his  dream  rather  a  seductive  one  to  play  with. 
And  a  young  man  of  thirteen,  shearing  the  yellow 
corn  when  the  sunrise  is  flooding  the  valley,  or 
sitting  on  a  spink  of  rock  at  the  same  stimulating 
hour  and  listening  to  the  liquid  harmony  that  is 
pouring  from  the  lark's  breast  high  in  the  sky, 
and  excitedly  looking  afar  over  a  magic  world, 
must  be  pardoned  if  his  fancy  will  take  wild 
flights. 

It  was  pleasing  then  to  play  at  your  being  twenty 
and  a  schoolmaster — "The  Masther" !  The 
parish  looking  up  to  you  with  mingled  awe  and 
admiration,  addressing  you  as  Masther,  seeking 
advice  and  information  from  you  on  all  subjects 
under  the  sun — and  over  it — making  you  reader 
and  writer  of  their  letters,  their  wills,  their  agree- 
ments (free  of  charge),  inviting  you  to  face  the 
priest  at  the  station-house  breakfast,  to  grace  their 
feasts,  to  lead  their  fun,  to  add  the  necessary  im- 
portance and  adornment  to  all  their  functions,  and 
(it  was  little  wonder  that  you  grabbed  your  spink 
of  rock  at  this  one)  drawing  the,  oh!  so  dizzy 
salary  of  thirty  pounds  a  year!  Princes  and  em- 
perors, go  hide  your  little  heads!     It  gave  you 

[148] 


THE  MASTHER 

renewed  confidence,  when,  having  taken  days  and 
weeks  to  screw  your  courage  to  it,  you,  sitting  by 
the  fireside  on  a  night  when  the  harvest  was  all 
in,  sprang  upon  your  father,  who  smoked  in  one 
chimney  corner,  and  your  mother,  who  spun  in  the 
other,  the  bomb:  "I  think  I'll  be  a  Masther  like 
Masther  Moroney  beyont !"  And  neither  of  them 
fainted  or  stampeded  with  fright. 

But  your  mother,  releasing  a  hand  from  her 
work,  stroked  your  red  head  affectionately  and 
said :  "God  prosper  the  thought,  a  enisle  mo 
chroidhe."  And  your  father,  after  continuing  his 
steady  gaze  into  the  flames  for  some  tense  mo- 
ments— they  were  tense  to  you — took  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth  and  said:  "Well,  a  mine,  'tis  a 
bould  thought,  God  bless  it !  But  I  do  be  thinkin' 
there's  a  grain  o'  brains  knockin'  about  some- 
wheres  in  the  back  o'  your  head.  'Twill  be  a  big 
day  for  Ireland,  Moira,"  he  then  said  to  your 
mother  across  the  fire,  "the  day  Dinny  becomes  a 
Masther."  And  your  mother  in  reply  just  turned 
her  eyes  to  Heaven. 

Your  father  went  with  you  himself  the  very 
next  day  to  Masther  Moroney  and  gave  you  in 
special  charge  to  him,  informing  him  that  a 
Masther  was  to  be  made  out  of  you.  "Give  him 
mim'ry,"  your  father  said.  "The  boy  has  all  the 
brains  he  needs,"  and  was  not  going  to  draw  on 

[  149] 


THE  MASTHER 

Masther  Moroney's  stock,  "but  give  him  mim'ry 
and  teach  him  al-j^v-bra,  and  the  rule  o'  three 
frontways  and  back,  and  give  him  all  you  have 
yourself  and  charge  it  to  me."  Masther  Moroney 
faithfully  promised  to  execute  all  your  father's 
orders.  And  your  mother  sent  him  the  next  day 
by  you  a  fine,  big  meascdn  of  yellow  butter. 

And  when  Masther  Moroney  had  given  you  all 
he  had  himself,  you  travelled  to  finish  your  edu- 
cation. More  correctly  speaking,  you  "trotted" 
for  knowledge — sometimes  galloped.  For  in  those 
long,  seven-mile  journeys  that  you  then  began 
making  every  morning  to  the  great  town  of  Done- 
gal, where  there  were  houses  on  both  sides  of  the 
street,  to  sit  under  the  far-famed  Masther  Mac- 
Rory,  who  built  his  big  reputation  on  his  astound- 
ing knowledge  of  "Jackson's  Bookkeeping"  and 
"Vosther's  Arithmetic,"  you  most  frequently  had 
to  cross  the  hills  and  the  dales  at  full  speed  to  over- 
take the  "early  lesson." 

Very  autocratic  was  this  Masther  MacRory,  too, 
as  was  only  to  be  expected  from  a  man  famed 
for  knowing  not  only  "Vosther's  Arithmetic"  and 
"Jackson's  Bookkeeping,"  but  also  the  dizzy  peaks 
of  mensuration,  reaching  up  to  the  solution  of  his 
renowned  poetic  problem  which,  it  was  admitted, 
no  scholars  in  the  world  other  than  his  could  solve : 

[150] 


THE  MASTHER 

"One  day  with  a  tinker  I  happened  to  sit, 
Whose   tongue   ran   a    great   deal   too   fast   for 

his  wit. 
He  talked  of  his  art  with  abundance  of  mettle, 
So  I  asked  him  to  make  me  a  flat-bottomed  kettle. 
Let  the  bottom  and  top  in  diameter  be 
In  just  such  proportion  as  five  is  to  three. 
Twelve  inches  the  depth  I  proposed,  and  no  more, 
And  to  hold  in  ale  gallons  seven  less  than  a  score. 

"He  promised  to  do  it  and  straight  to  work  went, 
But  when  he  had  made  it,  he  found  it  too  scant; 
He  altered  it  then,  but  the  way  he  had  done  it 
Although  it  held  right  the  diameters  failed  it. 
Thus  making  it  often  too  big  and  too  little, 
The  tinker  at  last  had  quite  spoiled  the  kettle. 

!|S  3ft  3fS  "P  *F 

"Now  he  swears  he  will  bring  his  said  promise 
to  pass 
Or  else  he  will  spoil  every  ounce  of  his  brass. 
Then  to  keep  him  from  ruin  I  pray  find  him  out 
The  diameters'   length,   for  he'll  ne'er  do  it,   I 
doubt." 

To  have  attended  the  school  of  such  a  man  was 
in  itself  a  passport  to  local  fame;  to  have  been  led 
by  him  through  the  labyrinths  of  knowledge  and 
turned  out  of  the  Golden  Gate  with  the  Tinker 
Problem  an  open  page  to  you,  assured  your  being 

[i5i] 


THE  MASTHER 

mentioned  at  the  Avedding  and  the  wake  and  in 
the  chapel-yard  with  Masther  MacRory  himself, 
Boney-party,  and  Daniel  O'Connell. 

You  indeed  appreciated  to  the  full  your  ex- 
traordinary privilege,  and  made  the  most  of  it 
during  those  three  winters'  and  two  summers'  at- 
tendance at  his  school.  The  long  journey  every 
morning  and  every  afternoon  had  its  advantages. 
For  as  you  ran  to  school  in  the  lovely  summer 
dawns,  or  in  the  magic  moonlight  or  beauteous 
starlight  of  the  winter  mornings,  you  had  a  mag- 
nificent chance — denied  the  poor  unfortunate  fel- 
lows living  too  near  the  school — to  memorize  your 
tasks.  And,  in  galloping  home  over  the  hills  in 
the  evening,  you  had  a  grand  opportunity  of  re- 
peating over  and  over,  and  fixing  forever  in  your 
memory,  every  golden  word  from  the  Book  of 
Knowledge  that  the  great  man  had  that  day  re- 
vealed to  you.  And,  reaching  home,  you  had  such 
a  roaring  appetite  for  the  mouth-watering  dinner 
of  tatties  toasting  for  you  by  the  blazing  fire,  and 
the  grand  pandy  of  milk  which  your  mother  had 
sitting  on  the  table  for  you!  But  to  tell  the  joys 
of  that  steaming-hot  bowl  of  tea,  with  yellow- 
cappered,  crisp  oat-bread,  which  came  on  the 
heels  of  the  tatties  and  milk,  words  fail  you  ! 

And  then  the  telling  your  father  and  mother, 
to  their  awe  and  amazement,  the  wonderful  won- 

[152] 


THE  MASTHER 

ders  you  had  learned  that  day!  And  after- 
wards, the  glorious  stretching  by  the  side  of  the 
big,  blazing  fire  of  turf  and  fir  to  learn  your  tasks ! 
And  your  well-earned,  sound,  deep  and  dreamless 
sleep !  And  up  before  screek  o'  day  in  the  morn- 
ing again,  and,  after  a  big,  hearty  breakfast,  away 
like  the  whirlwind  on  the  road  to  greatness  and 
glory  once  more !  Och,  there's  sorrow  a  doubt 
about  it,  'twas  grand  entirely ! 

In  spite  of  your  sleeved  waistcoat,  which  paid 
the  double  debt  of  coat  and  vest,  marking  you 
as  from  the  mountains  and  drawing  upon  you  the 
jokes  and  jeers  of  the  town-boys — who  must  have 
been  millionaires'  sons,  for  they  all  had  regular 
jackets — you  were  springing  into  prominence 
as  Masther  MacRory's  crack  scholar  and 
were  usually  selected  by  him  when,  for  the  aweing 
of  visitors,  he  wanted  a  genius  to  do  the  prob- 
lem of  the  Horse-Shoe  Nails  or  to  spell  Antitrini- 
tarian  and  Transubstantiation. 

Till  one  day — a  beautiful  September  afternoon 
it  was — trotting  home  over  the  top  of  Altidoo, 
you  were  stopped  by  Father  Pat,  who,  staff  in 
hand,  was  returning  from  a  sick-call  in  the  remote 
mountains.  In  his  own  abrupt  fashion,  he  hailed 
you:  "Can  you  sing,  sir?"  And  you  hung  your 
head  and  blushed  and  said  you  thought  you  could 
— a  little.     "Get  up  on  that  wall  there  and  sing 

[i53] 


THE  MASTHER 

me  'O'Donnell  Abu!'"  And  you  mounted  the 
rickety  stone  wall — it  was  the  mearin'  between 
Long  Andy  Meehan's  land  and  Red  Charley's — 
and  sang  a  verse  of  "O'Donnell  Abu !"  as  best 
you  could  for  your  nervousness. 

Over  the  next  field  a  lark  with  his  liquid  mel- 
ody was  making  you  ashamed  of  your  every  note, 
and  a  stray  curlew,  flying  past,  circled  several 
times  over  the  heads  of  yourself  and  your  audi- 
ence, wondering  what  it  was  all  about,  anyhow. 
You  couldn't  keep  your  mind  off  that  lark  and 
curlew  while  you  sang,  so  that  you  thought  you 
were  surely  making  a  botch  of  it.  "That'll  do!" 
Father  Pat  said  curtly,  when  you  had  finished  one 
verse.  "Come  down !"  You  came  down — in 
every  sense  of  the  word. 

But  you  were  exalted  to  Heaven  the  next  mo- 
ment when  he  said  to  you:  "How'd  you  like  to 
teach  a  school !"  You  don't  remember  what  you 
answered  him  at  all;  you  only  recollect  his  part- 
ing words :  "Then  come  down  to  my  house  the 
morrow  night  for  the  key  of  Cloch  Corr  School." 
And  three  days  after,  still  trembling  lest  you'd 
wake  up,  you  found  yourself  actually  a  Masther, 
in  charge  of  a  great  school  with  five  windows  and 
a  splendidly  thatched  roof,  and  three-score-and- 
ten  bright  boys  and  girls,  from  a  five-mile  radius, 
in  attendance. 

[i54] 


THE  MASTHER 

That  was  a  great  day  entirely  for  you.  When 
these  three-score-and-ten  pupils  addressed  you  as 
Masther,  you  were  past  yourself  with  pride !  And 
when  they  came  up  and  laid  their  weekly  penny 
upon  your  desk  you  swelled  like  a  plutocrat !  And 
when  you  had  divided  them  into  their  eight  classes, 
and  started  the  Mill  of  Knowledge  grinding  (with 
more  terrible  din  than  you'd  ever  heard  from 
any  other  mill  in  creation),  and  when  you  were 
commanding  and  running  all  eight  classes  at  the 
one  time,  you  realized  that  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
was  an  overrated  man,  after  all ! 

But  when,  at  the  quarter's  end,  you  came  home 
and  made  your  father  and  mother  speechless  by 
counting  down  to  them  seven  bright  yellow  pounds 
and  pocketed  for  yourself  ten  whole  shillings,  you 
were  on  the  ridge  of  the  world,  and  wouldn't  call 
a  king  your  cousin.  Old  Earth  was  a  good  place 
and  gay  to  live  upon,  and  you  saw  no  reason  what- 
ever why  every  man  upon  it  shouldn't  be  his  own 
emperor. 

Empire,  of  course,  is  not  without  its  draw- 
backs— its  responsibilities.  If  you  did  not  keep 
both  eyes  and  ears  and  feet  terribly  active,  and 
hands  active  sometimes,  too,  the  playing  of 
Crossy-Crowny  and  Willy- Wan  was,  in  one  class, 
apt  to  be  substituted  for  mathematics;  and  in  an- 
other, the  telling  of  the  wonderful  story  of  the 

[i55] 


THE  MASTHER 

King  of  Ireland's  Son's  Journey  to  the  Well  of 
the  World's  End  was  likely  to  replace  the  more 
scientific  style  of  geography;  and  the  matching  of 
featherweights  for  pre-prandial  combats  to  dis- 
place Christian  Doctrine  in  a  third. 

Hardly  a  week  passed  in  which  your  mental 
activities  were  not  taxed  by  the  solicitous  parent, 
frieze-coated  and  blustery,  who  held  up  all  school 
business  while  you  should  calculate  and  inform 
him  whether  he  should  put  wee  Johnny  on  for 
priest,  lawyer  or  doctor — the  object  of  his  solici- 
tation, just  then,  though  supposedly  wrestling  with 
the  abstruse  mysteries  of  "a-n  an,  o-x  ox,"  being 
surreptitiously  engaged  in  inserting  a  crooked  pin 
in  the  under-fiesh  of  his  big  toe,  for  purpose  of 
stimulating  the  young  mathematician  in  front,  who 
was  in  the  throes  of  absorbing  the  "Threeses" 
tables. 

On  winter  days  you  had  the  added  tax  of  com- 
pelling every  aspirant  to  carry,  for  the  school  fire, 
his  daily  contribution  of  two  turf.  And  of  watch- 
ing, too,  that  Dinny  the  Dodger  did  not,  by  sleight 
of  hand  and  strength  of  wrist,  convert  his  single 
turf  into  two,  just  at  the  school  door,  and  then 
enter  with  an  assumption  of  innocence  and  up- 
rightness which  might  well  deceive  the  unsophisti- 
cated. And  in  guarding  that  none  of  the  delin- 
quents   who    failed    to    bring    their    contribution 

[156] 


»w 


THE  MASTHER 

should  warm  bare  feet  and  dirty  hands  at 
the  fire  for  ten  minutes — the  special  privilege  and 
reward  of  everyone  who  dutifully  carried  turf 
tribute. 

And  you  had  to  reckon,  moreover,  with  Larry 
O'Connell  in  his  rage  and  Madgie  Mulhearn  in 
her  righteous  wrath,  when,  like  a  whirlwind, 
they  descended  upon  your  little  school,  vowing 
vengeance  sure  and  sudden  on  the  very  next 
natarnal  rascal  of  your  pupils  who  should  violate 
their  cherished  turf-stacks.  But  when,  on  a  cruel, 
sleety  January  morning,  Johnny  Tummony  and 
his  fellows  had  trotted  five  miles  of  mountain  all 
the  way  from  Shanveen,  with  the  seven  streams 
running  from  their  scanty  duds,  and,  finding  them- 
selves wanting  in  the  pair  of  passports  which 
could  bring  them  to  Heaven,  in  the  shape  of  the 
big  blazing  school  fire,  beheld  Larry  the  Niggard's 
big  turf-stack  crying  aloud  to  the  universe  "Come 
and  steal  I" — human  nature  would,  you  knew,  as- 
sert itself. 

And  while  you,  to  the  appeasing  of  Larry  the 
Niggard,  threatened  awful  threats  upon  the  cower- 
ing Johnny  and  his  confederates  in  crime,  it 
is  greatly  to  be  feared  that  in  your  sinful  heart 
you  condoned  highway  robbery.  And,  after  you 
had  frightened  the  life  and  soul  out  of  the  Shan- 
veen Ali   Baba   and   Band   of  Thieves   and   sent 

[i57] 


THE  MASTHER 

Larry  home  rejoicing,  you  went  back  to  the  band 
of  rascals  and  spoke  angrily,  commanding  them  to 
go  to  the  fire  that  instant  and  dry  themselves  out, 
and  let  the  blaze  of  the  stolen  turf  burn  shame 
into  their  bones.    Maybe  it  did ! 

You  took  your  proper  place  in  the  parish  now 
— next  to  the  priest.  And  all  the  world  brought 
you  reverence.  You  were  gay  as  befitted  one  on 
whom  greatness  sat  easily,  and  sporty  as  became  a 
millionaire  drawing  a  salary  of  thirty  pounds  a 
year — not  to  mention  weekly  school-pennies.  You 
went  through  the  world  with  open  heart  and  hand. 
You  had  a  penny  to  lend  and  a  penny  to  spend; 
you  gave  a  penny  to  the  beggar,  and  a  penny  to 
the  fiddler,  and  you  bought  ribbons  for  the  girls 
at  the  fair. 

You  walked  a  pleased  and  flattered  man  among 
the  great  schoolmasters  of  the  countryside;  and 
a  proud  and  envied  man,  when,  some  time  later, 
you  had  a  monitor  appointed  to  assist  you  with 
your  eight  classes.  The  world  was  your  football. 
You  were  honoured  everywhere;  you  were  in- 
vited everywhere.  At  the  feast  your  place  was 
the  head  of  the  table;  the  bridegroom  was  only 
next  man  to  you  at  the  wedding;  at  the  wake  you 
divided  honours  with  the  poor  man  (God  rest 
him  !)  who  was  underboard.  An  accession  of  easy 
dignity  came  to  you  and  a  very  pleasurable  air 

[158] 


THE  MASTHER 

of  importance,  and  infinite  wisdom  and  knowledge, 
so  that  it  was  no  wonder  your  presence  was  coveted 
to  grace  all  gatherings;  and  all  parties  consented 
that,  if  they  lived  to  the  age  of  Methuselah,  they 
could  not  repay  you  for  the  honour  you  did  them. 
In  the  chapel-yard  an  admiring  group  always  sur- 
rounded you,  hanging  upon  your  words  and 
treasuring  the  slightest  as  if  it  were  golden. 

On  Saturday  night,  when  The  Nation  was 
brought  to  you  by  Neil  MacDermott,  coming  out 
from  the  Market,  your  house  filled  with  neigh- 
bours hungering  to  hear  the  latest  that  concerned 
their  poor  country's  checquered  fortunes.  And, 
from  the  top  of  the  first  left-hand  column  to  the 
bottom  of  the  last  right-hand  one,  you  read  aloud 
every  word  and  expounded  each  thing  as  you 
read  it. 

They  shook  their  heads  in  speechless  wonder  at 
your  facility  in  reading,  without  pause  or  stumble, 
the  biggest  words  that  the  greatest  orator  of 
them  all  had  used.  And  in  the  hearts  of  the  old 
ones  here  at  your  house,  just  as  in  the  minds  of 
the  youth  at  your  school,  you  implanted  something 
of  that  deep  love  for  your  suffering  country  that 
had  burned  in  your  own  soul  since  in  childhood 
you  had  first  read  the  story  of  her  wrongs.  Yes, 
you  were  worthy  master  and  teacher  in  that  field. 

But  noblesse  oblige.     On  a  raging,  December 


THE  MASTHER 

night  about  twelve,  when  you  were  sitting  by  the 
fire  in  your  stocking  soles  preparatory  to  bedding, 
Denis  Ruddy  was  likely  to  lift  the  latch  and  walk 
in  and  command  you  to  stroll  six  miles  with  him 
over  the  bogs  to  Cruach-na-Copal  to  draw  up  the 
will  of  old  Paddy  Murrin,  who  had  got  "onaisy 
in  his  mind"  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and 
wouldn't  rest  or  sleep  till  he  had  made  his  will. 
And,  as  likely  as  not,  you  might,  three  months 
after  old  Paddy's  death,  have  to  stand  the  brunt 
of  Denis's  anger  because  he,  a  full  third  cousin 
to  Paddy's  wife's  niece,  hadn't  been  mentioned  in 
the  will.  Cormac  Gildea  pulled  you  from  your 
sleep  on  the  wildest  night  that  ever  fell  from  the 
Heavens  to  go  three  miles  up  the  mountain  to 
Cronna-Nyas  and  put  the  finishing  touches  to  the 
final  settlement  of  the  ninety-year-old  dispute  about 
the  march-ditch  between  the  MacGinley  Dubhs 
and  the  MacGinley  Ruadhs.  When  March  with 
its  razor  edge  was  skinning  the  snipes,  Billy 
O'Boyle  of  Gleneany  accorded  you  the  privilege  of 
surveying  Carnaween  mountain  for  him. 

And,  when  you  finished  it  alive,  he  got  you  to 
close  your  school  for  three  days  while  you  tramped 
with  him  over  three  mountain  ranges  and  two 
glens  into  the  heart  of  the  County  Donegal  to  ask 
the  wife  for  him — a  fine  girl,  by  the  way,  with 
two  hundred  head  of  sheep  and  five  two-year-olds, 

I160] 


THE  MASTHER 

and  a  chest  of  linen,  and  plenishing  for  a  new 
home — and  he  repaid  you  handsomely  by  the 
promise  that  you'd  stand  for  his  first. 

You  were  grand  correspondent  for  the  parish, 
especially  inditing  letters  to  Amerikay,  at  the 
writing  of  which  you  were  expected  to  take  down 
in  long  hand  five  hundred  and  twenty-seven  words 
a  minute — Nancy  Hannigan's  rate  when  she  spoke 
slowly,  as  in  dictating  to  you — and  on  one  sheet 
of  paper  set  down  the  history  of  the  parish  during 
the  twelve  months  that  were  gone,  including  the 
biography  of  every  second  person  in  it. 

You  must  overlook  the  unintentional  reflection 
on  your  scholarship  when  Shusie  Gallagher,  run- 
ning out  of  both  words  and  wind,  wound  up  her 
dictation  with  "Please  excuse  haste  and  poor 
spellin'. — From  your  lovin'  mother."  But  your 
humiliation,  if  you  were  foolish  enough  to  feel 
such,  was  cured  by  the  meascdn  of  Shusie's  loveliest 
golden  butter,  by  crisp  cakes  of  her  bread,  by 
beastings,  socks,  linen  shirts,  knitted  underwear, 
bags  of  potatoes,  melders  of  meal,  and  every  other 
tribute  paid  you  that  a  king  could  expect. 

And  when  you  wanted  your  handful  of  hay,  or 
your  lock  of  turf,  or  grain  of  corn  home,  horses, 
asses  and  mules,  carts  and  barrows,  boys,  men  and 
children  thronged  the  roads  around  as  if  a  Caesar 
had  bid  them  in.    And  remember,  in  this  enumera- 

[161] 


THE  MASTHER 

tion  of  your  rewards,  I  have  taken  no  account  of 
the  heart-felt  prayers  put  up  for  you  in  the  course 
of  a  hundred  nightly  Rosaries,  and  the  old 
women's  blessings  piled  on  your  head  Heaven- 
high.  The  Recording  Angel's  credit  books  surely 
overflowed  in  your  days,  giving  him  grievance 
against  the  Masther  of  Cloch  Corr  for  having  to 
invest  in  a  brand-new  set,  all  on  the  Masther's 
account. 

But,  even  though  you  had  now  won  the  undis- 
puted distinction  of  being  among  the  greatest  men 
in  the  world,  you,  unlike  most  great  men,  dared 
not  for  a  day  rest  upon  your  laurels.  You  had 
ever  to  be  on  your  guard  to  maintain  your  su- 
premacy, for  you  knew  not  when,  like  a  thief  in 
the  night,  Fate  should  overtake  you — at  the 
school,  at  the  wake,  on  the  flags  of  the  chapel- 
yard,  or  amid  the  festivities  of  christening  or 
wedding. 

If  the  Doorin  men,  who  came  from  old 
Masther  Maguire's  district  in  the  very  lower  end 
of  the  parish,  and  passed  your  school  with  their 
turf  carts  on  the  way  to  the  bog,  failed  to  floor 
you  with  the  mathematical  poser  they  carried  to 
you  from  him :  "Good  morrow  to  you,  neigh- 
bour and  your  twenty  geese,"  then  Masther 
McLoon's  three  crack  scholars,  who,  in  their  va- 
cation time,  went  like  roaring  lions  over  the  hills 

[162] 


THE  MASTHER 

seeking  what  poor  unfortunate  Masther  they 
might  devour,  sprang  at  you  their  latest: 

"On  a  circular  lot,  rich  with  various  grasses, 
Which  contained  just  one  acre,  I  tied  up  three  asses 
In  three  equal  circles,  and  the  largest  that's  found 
Within  the  circumference  of  an  acre  of  ground. 
Now  I  want  you  to  tell  me  the  length  of  the  string 
That  attached  each  ass  to  his  circle  or  ring. 
Also  the  space  occupied  by  each  ass 
And   how   much   there   remains   of  the   acre   of 
grass;" 

— or:  "If  we  gave  you,  Masther,  an  eight-gallon 
keg  filled  with  whiskey,  and  a  five-gallon  keg  and 
a  three-gallon  keg  both  empty,  and  no  other 
measure,  instrument  or  implement  whatsoever, 
how  will  you  measure  us  out  four  gallons  of  that 
whiskey,  not  a  drop  more  and  not  a  drop  less?" — 
all  work  in  your  school  being  that  day  suspended 
until  you,  by  superhuman  effort  and  at  loss  of 
much  perspiration,  wrung  out  the  solution — to  the 
uncontrolled  joy  of  your  scholars  and  the  complete 
down-casting  of  the  lions,  who,  with  drooped  tail 
and  no  more  roaring,  took  their  departure. 

But  still  in  danger  are  you  to  meet  your 
Waterloo  when  the  Bacach  Ruadh  (red-haired 
beggarman),  audacious  as  he  is  ignorant, 
challenges     you     in     the     chapel-yard     to     spell 

[163] 


THE  MASTHER 

bombergladoflimflastifamuloquentialities,  to  the 
awe  and  wonder  of  the  open-mouthed  multitude 
who  marvel  at  the  extraordinary  brains  the 
Bacach's  uncombed  crop  of  red  hair  conceals.  And 
indeed  a  real  Waterloo  it  might  have  been  the 
night  of  Corney  Heggarty's  wake,  when  the  same 
ignorant,  impudent  fellow  publicly  challenged  you 
across  the  floor: 

"Masther,  my  learned  and  honourable  friend, 
take  Joe-ology,  Al-j^v-bra,  Trigonometry,  Flux- 
ions, Joe-graphy,  Jurie's  Prudence,  the  Con- 
fluxion  of  the  Systems,  Di-sec-tations,  Sequestra- 
tions, Disquisitions,  Mathematics  or  the  Influen- 
tial carcases — on  which  of  all  these  larned  things 
is  it  your  prefermentation  that  I  should  test  your 
eruditional  accomplishments?" 

To  which  you  suitably  replied  :  "Sirrah  !  From 
my  rare  intellectual  altitudes  I  gaze  with  infinite 
contempt  alloyed  with  despicable  commiseration 
on  the  pitiable  accumulation  and  aggregation  of 
unmitigated  balderdash  with  which  you  have  the 
audacious  temerity  to  address  me!" 

Whereupon  he  retorted: 

"Let  no  charlatanical  fop  presume  to  dispute 
the  atrocious  voracity  of  my  achromatical  qualifi- 
cations, for  I'm  a  heterogeneous  cosmopolite 
perambulating  and  differentiating  intricate  prob- 
lematics  throughout  the   circumambient   localities 

[164] 


SPELL  BOMBERGLADOFLIMFLASTIFAMUL(  (QUENTIALITIES 


THE  MASTHER 

which  I  have  mesmerized  into  a  conglomerate 
catastrophe!" 

And  you  rejoined:  "Sirrah!  of  all  subjects  in 
the  educational  curriculum  of  the  universe  from 
the  Alpha  to  the  Omega  of  the  same,  select  and 
indicate  one  and  I  shall  instantaneously  proceed  to 
expose  your  accumulated  ignorance  to  the  gaze  of 
a  commiserating  public!" 

Then  he — the  neighbours  now  having  been 
aroused  to  a  tremendous  pitch  of  excitement : 

"Having  given  the  paralysis  of  the  hypotenuse, 
can  you  calculate,  enumerate  and  dimonstrate  for 
me,  by  the  square  and  kibe  roots  of  Joe-ometry 
and  Trigonometry,  how  many  fathoms  of  wind 
blew  through  the  chancel  windy  of  Donegal's  ould 
abbey  last  Janiary  was  a  twelve  month?" 

And  finally  poor  you,  your  whole  name,  fame, 
fortune  and  prestige  trembling  in  the  balance  as 
you  heard  the  breathless  neighbours  whisper: 
"Faith,  that's  a  tarror!"  your  good  angel  com- 
ing to  your  aid  with  a  flash  of  inspiration,  drew 
from  your  vest  pocket  a  bit  of  chalk,  cleared  the 
center  of  the  floor  and  on  the  flag  there  drew  a 
right-angle  triangle  A,  B,  C,  and,  courageously 
looking  the  Bacach  in  the  eye,  said : 

"Let  A  B  C  be  a  right-angled  triangle,  having 
the  right  angle  at  B.  I  say  that  the  squares  on 
the  base  and  perpendicular,  AB  and  BC,  are  to- 

[165] 


THE  MASTHER 

gether  equal  to  the  square  on  the  hypotenuse  AC. 
Prove  it,  or  forever  after  hold  your  tongue  I" 
With  which  you  flung  the  chalk,  like  glove  of 
gallant  knight,  at  the  scoundrel's  feet. 

The  confounded  Bacach  held  his  tongue,  and, 
next  morning,  a  broken  man,  quitted  forever  the 
parish  where  now  his  great  prestige  was  gone. 
And  you  were  henceforth  taller  by  his  prestige 
added  on  to  your  own — a  dizzy  height  indeed. 

Yes,  you  had  great  love  for  fine  language,  for 
those  beautiful,  long  words  that,  like  a  child  with 
toffy  string,  one  might  knot  upon  his  tongue  and 
feel  for  a  sweet,  long  time  under  his  palate. 
Father  Pat  had  delight  in  hearing  you  use  your 
fine  language  and  loved,  too,  to  have  the  Bishop 
hear  it  when  he  came  on  his  rounds.  Yet  it  nearly 
betrayed  you  into  difficulty  that  day  you  ac- 
companied His  Reverence  to  Drimgarman  Barr, 
to  Michael  MacCallion's,  where  he  was  going  to 
give  the  last  rites  to  poor  old  Peggy. 

You,  presuming  that  Peggy's  hearing  was  not 
as  good  as  it  used  to  be,  unfortunately  whispered 
to  Father  Pat,  as  you  entered  the  door:  "Sir,  I 
believe  she  is  a  nonogenarian,"  and  Peggy,  who 
for  all  her  four-score  and  ten  (and  some  more) 
could  still  hear  the  grass  growing,  lifted  her  head 
in  the  bed  that  was  in  the  kitchen  outshot,  wailing: 
"Och-och-a-neel      Och-och-a-nee !      O,    Masther! 

[i66] 


THE  MASTHER 

that  I  should  live  to  this  time  o'  day  to  hear  you 
say  that  of  me.  Och-och-a-nee !  Your  Reverence, 
darlin',  surely  wouldn't  believe  it  o'  me !" 

Father  Pat  saved  the  situation.  "Is  it  believe 
it,  Peggy?  Not  if  the  Bishop  of  the  diocese  him- 
self stood  there  on  the  floor  and  told  it  to  me." 
And  you  breathed  again,  and  Peggy,  serene  in  a 
saved  reputation,  settled  herself  to  crown  a  spot- 
less life  by  an  exemplary  death. 

You  never  married,  because  you  never  found  a 
girl  in  the  countryside  who  could  properly  appreci- 
ate the  sublime  passages  of  Homer  with  which 
you  tried  to  win  her  heart.  But  your  old  father 
and  your  old  mother  were  care  enough  for  you, 
and  care  well  for  them  you  did.  As  became  a 
man  of  great  income,  you  lavished  money  on  them, 
giving  them  not  only  of  comforts  but  of  luxuries 
likewise.  Their  days  were  smooth  and  their  nights 
restful.  Their  hearts  were  happy;  their  souls 
were  always  swelled  with  pride  for  you.  They 
passed  away,  calling  down  the  blessing  of  God 
on  the  best  son  (they  said)  that  father  or  mother 
ever  knew. 

You  not  only  did  your  duty  to  your  father  and 
mother,  but  you  did  your  duty  to  your  country 
likewise.  For  poor  Ireland  always  had  a  warm 
corner  in  your  warm  heart.  You  made  your  pupils 
not  scholars  only,  but  patriots  likewise.    Of  course, 

[167] 


THE  MASTHER 

it  was  against  the  rules  laid  down  for  school- 
masters by  a  paternal  government  that  the  name  of 
Ireland  should  be  mentioned  in  the  school  out- 
side the  geography  lesson.  You  strictly  observed 
the  rule,  to  be  sure,  but  the  title  "Geography"  got 
a  generous  interpretation  from  you;  and  the  in- 
ventor of  the  science  would  have  had  his  eyes 
opened,  had  he,  rising  from  his  grave,  wandered 
into  the  little  thatched  schoolhouse  of  Cloch  Corr, 
and  felt  the  fire  and  saw  the  red  blood  that  you 
put  into  a  subject  which  he  had  thought  to  be  as 
dry  as  Adam's  dust;  and  witnessed  pairs  of  child- 
ish eyes  fill  with  tears,  and  little  mouths  set  hard, 
and  little  fists  clench  under  inspiration  of  a  sub- 
ject that  he  had  never  dreamed  had  a  soul! 

Yes,  you  did  your  duty  by  your  pupils,  your 
parents  and  your  country.  In  doing  so  you  grew 
old  gracefully,  and  the  years  were  mellow,  and 
still  more  and  more  honour  came  with  your  gray 
hairs.  In  your  own  large-hearted  way  you  looked 
down  with  leniency  on  a  new  class  of — not 
Masthers — but  just  school-teachers  that  the 
colleges  were  turning  out,  as  a  sausage  machine 
turns  out  sausages;  smart,  pert  youngsters,  dressed 
in  shop-clothes,  riding  bicycles,  swallowing  certain 
books,  teaching  how  to  swing  the  arms  and  how 
to  fill  the  lungs  to  children  who  hungered  to  have 
their  minds  filled  and  the  joints  of  their  intellects 

[168] 


THE  MASTHER 

suppled.  School-teachers  who,  moreover,  are 
salaried  like  Caesars,  with  sixty  pounds  a  year  and 
perquisites;  just  twice  what  lavishly  remunerated 
Men  in  your  salad  days. 

The  world  is  surely  rushing  to  ruin :  and  'tis 
well,  after  all,  that  your  years  in  it  are  short. 
However,  except  to  crack  an  occasional  classic  joke 
on  them  (which,  of  course,  they  do  not  under- 
stand), whenever  they  presume  to  raise  their 
squeak  in  your  presence,  you  are  tolerant  with 
them.  As  becomes  a  giant  among  pigmies,  you 
extend  to  them  a  real  and  sincere  pity. 

The  men,  the  old-timers,  the  Masthers,  on  Pen- 
sion Saturday  meet  in  Donegal  Market  and  with- 
draw to  Larry  MacCue's  to  have  a  social  glass, 
and  talk  of  the  days  when  there  were  giants,  and 
to  tell  for  the  ten  thousandth  time  the  biting  re- 
joinder (unequalled  by  anything  outside  the 
classics)  that  Masther  MacGlinchey  gave  the 
officious  inspector;  and  to  recite  the  eighteen 
poems,  each  of  two  hundred  lines,  more  or  less, 
which  embody  the  learned  controversy  carried  on 
(via  the  Long  Beggarman)  between  Masther 
Corrigan  of  Killaghtee  and  the  unseen  genius, 
Masther  Mulvanny,  who  lived  somewhere  up  in 
County  Mayo;  to  put  again,  one  to  the  other,  some 
of  the  old  posers  that  in  these  degenerate  days  are 
falling  into  disrepute;  and  to  saunter  home  in  the 

[169] 


THE  MASTHER 

evening,  stopping  at  this  house  and  that  and  re- 
newing your  learned  controversies  and  cause  the 
old  ones  in  the  chimney  corner  to  shake  their 
heads  and  say:  "Ay,  this  is  the  last  of  the  rale 
ones,  and  more's  the  pity!" 

Yes,  soon  the  green  quilt  will  be  drawn  over 
you,  and  sure  'twould  be  some  consolation  to  you 
that  day  if  you  could  see  how  the  gray-headed 
ones  will  look  in  and  drop  a  tear  on  the  lowered 
coffin  and  say:  "Well,  his  like  will  never  walk 
the  world  again.    The  Heavens  be  his  bed!" 


[170] 


A  DAY  IN  THE  BOG 

DO  you  mind  the  turf-cutting?  The  turf-cut- 
ting in  Donegal !  the  turf-cutting  in  the  lone 
bogs,  away  among  the  far  hills,  in  the  merry  May 
time,  when  the  sun  was  bright  and  the  air  was 
balmy,  and  the  first  flowers  were  showing  on  the 
slopes,  and  the  marsh-mallows  by  the  wayside;  and 
the  milky-white  cean-a-bhans  were  broidering  the 
bogs;  and  the  bee  was  humming,  and  the  water- 
wagtail  twittering;  and  the  lark  spilling  his  mel- 
ody from  above — when  the  bog,  at  most  times 
lonely,  was  at  length  lively  with  the  quick-working 
little  groups  that  dotted  it — the  men  and  bigger 
boys  fast  plying  the  spade,  and  slinging  the  clean- 
cut  turf  high  up  into  the  eager  hands  that  waited 
to  catch  it  soft  and  sodden,  and  bear  it  back  to 
the  clear,  dry  ground  behind,  where  the  sun,  and 
the  wind,  and  the  air  would  win  the  peat  that 
should  serve  to  feed  a  fine  fire.  Oh,  the  turf- 
cutting  !  the  glorious  turf-cutting !  the  happy  turf- 
cutting!  the  turf-cutting  in  the  bogs  of  Ireland! 

But,  to  be  sure,  'twasn't  all  merriment,  and 
'twasn't  all  poetry,  the  same  turf-cutting  in  your 
lovely,  lonely  bogs.  It  ever  meant  a  long  day's 
work,    and    a    strong    day's    work    and    hard — 

[171] 


A  DAY  IN  THE  BOG 

bracingly  begun  before  the  sun  rolled  above  the 
rim  of  the  bog,  and  ended,  with  aching  back  and 
raging  appetite,  after  he  had  gone  to  rest  again, 
and  was  pulling  black  curtains  between  him  and 
the  world. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  your  father, 
who  never  seemed  to  sleep  when  there  was  any- 
thing to  do,  was  already  afoot  in  the  little 
mountain  cabin,  and  noisily  awaking  every  mother's 
son  and  daughter  of  you,  and  hastening  you 
from  your  beds  before  you  got  the  gates  of  dream- 
land shut.  By  five  o'clock  the  clan-jaffrey  of  you 
have  stowed  away  a  breakfast  of  oaten  stirabout 
that  would  provision  a  privateer,  and  with  bottles 
of  new  milk,  and  fadges  of  well-hardened,  thickly- 
buttered  oatcake,  and  pocketsful  of  hard-boiled 
eggs,  leave  behind  you  the  little  house  with  the 
candle  in  its  little  window,  and,  in  the  breaking 
dawn,  are  treading  an  uncertain  way  down  the  un- 
even cassey  that  leads  from  your  door  to  the  road, 
cheerily  chattering  and  heartily  laughing  at  one 
another's  mishaps  as  you  go.  On  the  road,  your 
father  is  impatiently  holding  a  donkey  by  the  head, 
waiting  for  the  girls  to  take  their  place  in  the  high- 
caged  cart.  The  cage  swings  open;  the  girls 
bounce  in;  the  donkey  is  released,  and  off  along 
the  hard,  white  road  it  trots,  click-clack,  click- 
clack,    the   girls   laughing   gleefully,    while   your 

[172] 


A  DAY  IN  THE  BOG 

father  and  yourselves,  by  long  and  hasty  strides, 
kill  yourselves  trying  to  keep  up  to  the  mighty 
wise  little  animal,  which  knows  well,  since  such 
early  start  is  made,  that  a  big  day's  work  lies  ahead, 
and  extraordinary  haste  is  called  for. 

On  the  way  you  fall  in  with  many  another  hurry- 
ing party.  So,  in  the  bog,  the  round  red  sun 
rises  upon  a  lively  scene — a  pleasant  contrast  with 
the  usually  dreary  aspect  of  the  white-patched, 
great  and  wide  stretches  of  waste.  Here  and  there 
over  the  vast  surface  of  it  you  see  high-caged 
carts,  little  and  big,  up-ended;  and  the  animals 
that  drew  them,  the  donkeys  and  horses,  picking 
stray  blades  of  grass  and  soft  tops  of  heather, 
as  they  wander  wide.  Reeks  of  blue  smoke  are 
mounting  on  the  morning  air  from  a  hundred 
small  fires  built  nigh  the  carts,  and  a  hundred 
family  parties,  bareheaded  and  barefooted,  each 
upon  a  turf-bank  near  their  own  fire,  are  hard  at 
work  plying  the  spade,  or  catching,  or  throwing, 
or  carrying,  or  wheeling  the  fresh  turf,  or  set- 
ting drier  ones  on  end,  four  or  five  together — 
"footing"  them.  The  father's  spade,  or  elder 
brother's,  works  mortal  fast  indeed;  carving  its 
way  through  the  soft  bank,  sharp  and  quick,  the 
bright  blade,  for  a  second  deep-buried,  is  flashing 
aloft  the  next  instant,  and  a  clean  turf  is  flying 
from  it  into  the  waiting  hands  that  quickly  pass 

Li73] 


A  DAY  IN  THE  BOG 

it  far  from  its  bed.  Four,  or  five,  or  six  sweating 
people,  father,  and  sisters,  and  brothers,  take  little 
time — you'd  think — to  hearken  to  the  lark's  song 
or  the  bees'  hum,  to  enjoy  the  blue  sky,  or  the 
bright  hills  beyond  the  bog,  or  the  white  sunshine 
that  is  frisking  upon  them,  or  the  sweet-smelling 
smoke  that  is  curling  above.  Keeping  hands  and 
eyes  close  upon  their  labour,  they  work  hard  and 
still  harder  as  the  sun  mounts  high  and  still  higher. 
But,  for  all  that,  don't  conceit  yourself  that  the 
beauty  is  lost  on  them.  It  is  in  their  hearts  as  they 
work,  their  blood  leaps  the  quicker  for  it;  the 
lively  tune,  and  glad  song,  and  merry  joke,  come 
lightly  from  their  lips.  The  black  bog  is  bright, 
and  the  lone  bog  full  of  life,  and  the  silent  bog 
filled  with  music,  with  whistle  and  song,  with 
laughter,  chat  and  cheery  hail. 

Till  the  white  sun  has  reached  its  height,  and 
passed  it,  there  is  neither  cease  nor  pause.  Many 
a  suddenly-sprung  turf-cutting  contest  has  been 
hotly  fought  out,  and  many  a  victor  loudly  ac- 
claimed. "Patrick's  Andy  walked  his  floor*  at  the 
rate  of  a  weddin',  but  Manis  Gildea  swept  his  like 
a  blaze  o'  whins.",  But,  then,  "The  match  of 
Manis  wasn't  within  the  five  baronies,  and  his 
bate  couldn't  be  got  though  you  screenged  Ireland 
with  a  herrin'  net;  and  as  for  Andy,  his  aiqual  was 
*A  "floor"  is  a  strip  or  bog-bank  cleaned  for  cutting, 

[174] 


A  DAY  IN  THE  BOG 

far  to  find."  For  the  champion  turf-cutter  is  a 
hero  not  without  honour  in  his  own  country,  and 
in  his  own  way  he  may  gather  to  himself  nigh  as 
much  glory  as  the  schoolmaster.  His  name  is 
spoken  proudly  at  wedding,  wake  and  fair,  and 
he  holds  a  high  place  in  the  councils  of  his  neigh- 
bours. He  toils  hard  for  the  fame  that  finally 
comes  to  him,  and  has  the  consolation  of  knowing 
that  for  a  generation  after  the  "daisy  quilt"  is 
pulled  over  him  his  name  will  be  passed  with  pride, 
and  his  deeds  paraded  by  the  wondering  ones  he 
leaves  behind. 

After  midday,  when  appetites  are  keen  as  a 
March  blast,  your  father,  to  the  joy  of  all,  says: 

"That'll  do,  childer.  Let  us  in  God's  name  have 
food  to  eat,  and  rest  for  our  limbs."  And  turf 
and  turf-barrows  are  instantly  dropped,  and,  with 
a  rousing  cheer,  you  all  rush  for  the  cart  where 
the  coveted  things  are  stored.  Close  to  the  fire 
the  Cloth  of  Plenty  is  untied,  and  stacks  of  but- 
tered oatcake,  mounds  of  eggs,  and  mountains  of 
milk-bottles  disclosed  to  hungering  eyes.  Into  the 
fire  the  eggs  are  put  for  roasting.  Down  on  the 
bog-floor,  by  the  piles  of  eatables  and  drinkables, 
you  all  squat.  Your  father,  taking  off  his  hat, 
blesses  himself,  and  you  all  follow  the  good  ex- 
ample. With  hearty  good-will  you  then  "fall  to," 
and  the  carnage  begins. 

[i75] 


A  DAY  IN  THE  BOG 

Notwithstanding  the  ravenous  hunger  that  each 
of  you  brings  to  the  feast,  there  is  always  time 
for  a  joke  between  bites,  and  the  gay  laughter  goes 
forward  without  cessation.  At  the  tail  of  the  feast- 
ing your  father  draws  out  his  pipe,  and  fills  and 
lights  it,  stretches  his  legs  from  him,  gets  his 
back  against  a  pile  of  turf  and  smokes,  in  high 
content  with  himself  and  the  world.  You  and 
your  brothers  step  across  to  the  neighbouring 
parties,  and  have  your  whispers  with  the  blush- 
ing cailini  there;  while,  just  to  strike  a  balance, 
the  boys  from  there  cross  over  to  tell  your  girls 
what  sort  the  weather  is  going  to  be  to-morrow. 
But  there's  only  little  time  for  intercourse  just 
now.  The  call  of  a  dozen  fathers:  "To  your 
work,  brave  boys!"  soon  rings  out.  And,  with 
brightness  in  your  eyes  and  merry  music  on  your 
lips,  tripping  you  come  to  your  task  once  more, 
and  in  a  few  minutes'  time  the  bog  is  again  busy 
with  a  toiling  multitude. 

When,  after  a  long  day  and  a  glad  day,  the 
sun  has  at  last  left  the  pearly  sky,  and  the  shad- 
ows, waving  their  dark  wands,  come  after  you  all, 
now  tired  and  songless,  but  still  merry,  you  drop 
spade  and  barrow,  gather  your  alls,  pursue,  bring 
back  and  harness  the  donkey,  get  the  girls  into  the 
cart,  and,  wearing  a  pleasant  cloak  of  fatigue, 
set  your  steps  on  the  homeward  way.     A  supper 

[176] 


A  DAY  IN  THE  BOG 

fit  for  a  king  is  before  you  as  you  burst  into  the 
warm  kitchen  of  your  cabin,  nigh  to  bedtime — a 
mountain  of  flowery  potatoes,  still  steaming,  and 
laughing  through  their  jackets,  hillocks  of  yellow 
butter  flanking  it,  and  lochs  of  thick-milk — for, 
surely,  little  less  than  lochs  are  the  great  bowls 
of  it  that  are  set  down,  one  for  each  man,  and 
boy,  and  girl.  The  envy  of  a  king  would  be  the 
appetites  that  each  of  you  brings  home  with  you 
from  the  bog;  and  the  envy  of  a  king  might  well 
be  the  relish  with  which  you  attack  the  mountain 
of  laughing  potatoes;  and  certainly  the  envy  of 
a  king  would  be  the  happy  hearts  and  the  sleep- 
filled  heads,  and  glad,  tired  limbs,  which,  when 
Rosary  is  said,  you  stretch  upon  welcome  beds. 

Before  yet  the  turf  is  fully  won,  and  dragged 
home,  and  stacked  in  the  garden,  there's  many  an- 
other long  and  toilsome,  joyous,  bright  day  in  the 
bog  still  ahead  of  you.  And  after  the  turf  is  won, 
and  safely  stacked  at  home,  on  many  a  winter's 
night  will  the  high-leaping,  bright-blazing  turf 
fire  warm  you  and  cheer  you,  as  you  propound 
riddles,  and  sing  songs,  and  hearken  to  the  old, 
old,  beautiful  tales  and  laoidhs  that  happily  while 
away  the  surly,  gurly,  rainy,  stormy,  blowy,  snowy 
winter  nights,  and  repay  you,  happy-hearted  chil- 
dren of  all  ages,  for  many  a  sore,  toilsome,  glorious 
day  in  the  bog! 

[  177] 


THE  BACACH 

THOSE  individuals  who  affect  genteel  English 
might  call  him  Beggar — an  impolite  name, 
as  well  as  an  unworthy  one,  for  such  a  personage. 
You,  and  all  of  you,  knew  him  as  the  Bacach.  He 
was  usually  a  sturdy,  big  fellow,  whose  soul  long 
ago  rose  above  menial  and  manual  labour.  Yet 
he  tolerated  those  drudges  amongst  you  who 
grubbed  in  the  earth  for  an  existence.  But  he 
himself  always  held  his  head  to  heaven,  and  let 
you  pay  him  tribute — not  alms.  His  territory  ex- 
tended over  long  leagues.  As  he  took  to  the  roads, 
he  wore  his  alms-bags,  half  a  dozen  of  them,  gaily, 
and  swung  his  staff,  whistling  as  he  went. 

He  knew  himself  monarch  of  the  multitude,  and 
carried  himself  as  a  sovereign  should,  moving 
amongst  subjects  whom  he  did  not  altogether 
despise. 

There  was  warm  welcome  for  him  always  when 
he  thrust  in  his  head  at  your  door,  hurling  bless- 
ings at  herself,  and  yourself,  and  the  children. 
You  welcomed  him  for  many  reasons.  In  the  first 
place,  because  he  was  one  of  God's  poor — even 

*The  bacach,  or  beggarman,  is  a  great  power  and  tyrant 
among  the  charitable,  good-hearted  people  in  the  mountainous 
parts  of  Ireland. 

[178] 


THE   BACACH 

though  he  lived  more  luxuriously  than  yourself, 
and  never  needed  to  take  thought  for  the  morrow. 
And,  again,  because  you  knew  that  he  was  a  man 
of  great  qualities,  well  worth  cultivating.  And, 
still  further,  because  he  was  your  newspaper.  Any 
single  one  of  these  was  sufficient  in  itself  to  make 
his  welcome;  but  all  three  were  overwhelming. 

While  Molly  emptied  her  tribute  (potatoes  or 
meal  or  good  bake-bread)  into  his  bags,  he  in- 
formed you  of  all  the  happenings,  not  merely  of 
the  countryside,  but  of  the  world. 

Even  if  he  had  not  the  world's  news  literally 
correct,  at  least  it  lost  nothing  in  the  carrying. 
If  he  told  you  of  a  battle  in  which  ten  thousand  men 
were  reported  killed  and  fifty  thousand  fatally 
wounded,  you  had  the  consolation  of  knowing  that 
at  least  you  were  not  denied  any  part  of  the  sensa- 
tion that  was  rightly  your  due.  He  never  gave 
short  measure.  And  the  most  contemptible 
stickler  for  prosaic  facts  could  not,  anyhow,  deny 
that,  in  the  foregoing  instance,  there  was  at  least 
a  horse  killed,  and  several  human  beings  seriously 
injured.  His  news,  like  the  old-time  novels,  was 
always  founded  upon  strict  fact. 

As  was  not  merely  pardonable  but  proper,  in  a 
genius,  he  made  his  own  of  all  news  he  had  heard, 
supplied  its  shortcomings,  cast  it  in  dramatic 
shape,  and  retailed  it,  not  necessarily  in  the  crude 

[i79] 


THE   BACACH 

way  in  which  it  did  occur,  but  in  the  finished  way 
in  which  it  should  have  occurred.  And  in  doing 
this  he  was  never  untruthful,  only  artistic — and 
wishful,  too,  to  satisfy  the  natural  cravings  of  hu- 
manity (which  in  the  remote  mountains  was  the 
same  as  in  the  city) . 

When  he  quit  your  house,  bearing  away 
heavier  bags,  he  left  you  under  a  weighty  sense 
of  obligation  to  him,  and  wishing  ardently  that 
tribute  time  came  thrice  a  week  instead  of  once. 
He  had  the  knack  of  striking  the  warmest  houses 
of  the  parish  at  meal  time,  when  he  honoured  them 
all  by  consenting  to  partake  of  the  best  that  was 
being  provided.  On  a  brisk  day  he  covered  a  deal 
of  ground.  He  stuck  not  prosaically  to  any  high- 
way, but  footed  it  by  field  and  flood,  hill  and  dale, 
mountain  and  moor,  as  he  met  them.  For  he  was 
in  all  things  a  scorner  of  the  paths  beaten  by  you, 
little  men.  As  he  managed  to  reach  at  meal  time 
the  house  noted  for  its  lavish  board,  so  likewise 
night  had  the  habit  of  overtaking  him  by  the  most 
comfortable  hearth  in  the  townland — where,  by 
his  own  invitation,  he  shed  his  bags  and  made 
himself  at  home  till  morning.  Any  one  of  God's 
poor  was,  of  course,  welcome  to  quarter  himself 
where  he  would,  because  you  knew  that  the  home- 
less were  equally  entitled  with  yourself  to  the  roof 
that  God  raised  over  you  and  to  a  share  of  the 

[180] 


THE   BACACH 

bite  that  you  struggled  for.  Any  of  God's  poor 
were  welcome  to  this  (which  you  always,  and 
rightly,  referred  to  as  "their  share"),  but  the 
royal  bacach  had  a  welcome  and  twenty  to  it. 
Moreover,  where  he  stopped,  he  received  no 
honour,  but  only  conferred  one.  And,  keenly 
alive  to  this  fact,  you  treated  him  accordingly. 
The  best  in  the  house  was  at  his  behest;  and, 
though  for  a  bed  he  had  only  the  usual  wandering 
one's  couch,  a  straw  shake-down,  this  was  given 
him  by  the  hearth,  so  that  he  slept  more  warmly 
and  more  comfortably  than  did  you,  his  honoured 
host. 

To  be  sure  he  ruled  you — as  you  deserved — 
with  a  rod  of  iron,  and,  while  he  honoured  your 
house  by  his  presence,  exacted  the  respect  that  was 
his  due  and  your  loyal  submission  that  was  some- 
thing short  of  slavish. 

After  a  luxurious  supper  he,  of  course,  occupied 
the  bean-a-tighe's  seat  in  the  chimney  corner, 
and,  there  indulging  in  a  post-prandial  pipe, 
held  the  house  spellbound  as  he  unfolded  to 
you  his  own  narrative  of  the  world's  doings 
and  misdoings,  enriching  the  narration  with 
pungent  comment  and  confident  prediction.  He 
arbitrated  between  the  Great  Powers,  if  they 
were  at  variance,  and  in  princely  fashion  trans- 
ferred whole  slices  of  geography  from  one  to  the 

[181] 


THE   BACACH 

other  for  justice'  sake — or  for  peace.  The  Irish 
Question  he  settled  nightly,  bestowing  upon  our 
distracted  country  a  generous  measure  of  Home 
Rule — to  be  followed  in  a  few  years  by  total  in- 
dependence under  a  king  of  his  own  choosing. 

When  Rosary  time  arrived,  he  drew  forth  his 
beads  and  ordered  the  household  upon  their  knees, 
whilst  he  then — still  usurping  the  bean-a-tighe's 
place — led  you  all  in  prayer.  To  the  crack 
prayers  of  the  parish  this  was  ever  a  treat.  But 
not  quite  so  enthusiastic  were  those  of  more  tem- 
perate devotional  instincts.  For  the  bacach  was 
vain  of  his  praying  powers — and  with  good  rea- 
son, too,  as  you  who  so  often  (and  long)  knelt 
under  him  must  readily  confess. 

Molly  herself  was  no  mean  hand  at  the  praying, 
as  the  groaning  children  will  testify;  but  even  she 
freely  admitted  that  the  bacach's  prayers  were 
only  well  begun  where  hers  left  off.  Accordingly, 
it  was  an  eminent  spiritual  treat  when  the  bacach 
led  the  Rosary.  Yet  you  very  much  fear  that  the 
unregenerate  of  the  younger  generation  did  not 
derive  from  his  devotional  exercises  the  invigorat- 
ing spiritual  refreshment  that  they  should.  The 
grip  of  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil  was  felt 
even  in  your  remote  mountains;  so  the  minds  of 
many  youngsters  were  upon  the  aches  that  racked 
their  knees  when,  in  harmony  with  the  bacach's, 

[182] 


THE   BACACH 

they  should  have  been  lifted  to  things  celestial. 
In  the  tone  of  their  response,  you  fear,  there  was 
sometimes  exasperation,  when  there  should  be  de- 
votion ;  and  a  groan  oftentimes  was  heard  from 
these  grovelling  sinners,  when  a  note  of  joy  was 
expected.  And  the  bacach,  well  knowing  the  hold 
which  the  Prince  of  Darkness  has  upon  the  way- 
ward hearts  of  youth,  usually,  as  his  prayers  pro- 
ceeded, turned  towards  them  a  stern — not  to  say 
wrathful — face,  and  prayed  at  them  in  fast,  and 
all  but  furious,  tones.  He  would  ask  for  "one 
Pather-a-Navvy  for  the  slothful  of  body  and  soul, 
that  their  eyes  may  be  opened  to  the  wickedness 
of  their  ways,  and  their  flintsomeness  of  heart 
moderated  by  the  penetrating  warnings  of  grace." 
It  is  in  these  trimmings  (as  you  called  them)  to 
the  Rosary  that  the  bacach  pre-eminently  shone. 
And  the  trimmings  were,  with  him,  always  far 
and  away  more  extensive  than  the  piece.  And  it 
is  these  trimmings  that,  straw  by  straw,  seemed  to 
break  both  back  and  knees — and  heart,  too — of 
the  sinful  youth.  "Let  us  offer  up  one  Pather-a- 
Navvy  for  our  friends  and  re-al-atives  far  and 
near,  and  abroad  in  the  worl'."  "Another  Pather-a- 
Navvy  for  the  houseless  and  homeless,  and  all  poor 
wanderers  on  God's  earth  that  has  no  roof  over 
their  heads  this  night — that  the  Lord  may  yet  lead 
them  to  everlasting  shelter  in  under  the  dazzling 

[183] 


THE   BACACH 

roof  of  heaven!"  "For  all  who  are  in  sickness, 
soreness,  or  sorrow,  want  or  advarsity,  trials  or 
troubles — one  Pather-a-Navvy  from  our  hearts." 
"For  sojers  and  sailors,  and  all  who  are  at  say  on 
the  ocean,  with  no  rush  bush  to  hould  by,  that 
God  may  preserve  them  from  watery  graves,  and 
unprovided-for  daiths  —  wan  Pather-a-Navvy." 
"For  our  poor  boys  and  girls  in  Amirikay,  and 
foreign  parts,  that  God  may  strengthen  their  arms, 
and  lighten  their  troubles,  and  soften  to  them  the 
hearts  of  the  stranger,  and  that  they  may  never 
do  nothing  to  bring  sin,  shame,  sorrow  nor  dis- 
grace on  them  or  theirs,  or  anyone  belongin'  to 
them — one  Pather-a-Navvy  from  our  hearts." 
"For  the  poor  sufferin'  souls  in  Purgatory — for 
our  fathers  and  mothers,  brothers  and  sisters,  kith 
and  kin,  and  likewise  for  the  poor  souls  who  are 
killed  in  wars,  and  have  no  one  to  pray  for  them 
— one  Pather-a-Navvy."  "One  other  Pather-a- 
Navvy  to  the  merciful  Lord  to  preserve  this  house, 
and  everyone  in  it  from  the  doleful  death  of 
cholera  morbis — that  the  good  Lord  may  lighten 
its  terrors,  and  weaken  its  ravages,  and  keep  it 
far  from  us,  and  from  all  poor  sinners  on  the  face 
of  this  earth."  And  this  latter  good  prayer  he 
fervently  clung  to,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that 
the  ravages  of  the  dread  disease  had,  fortunately, 
been  unknown  in  the  land  for  some  generations. 

[184] 


THE   BACACH 

As  he  was  great  upon  prayer,  the  bacach  was 
likewise  great  upon  prophecy,  and  could  fascinate 
you  a  thousand  times  by  reciting  from  beginning 
to  end  the  prophecies  of  your  great  and  much- 
loved  St.  Colm  Cille.  And  he  could  interpret  them 
to  the  meanest  understanding,  making  clear  what 
was  meant  by  the  black  pig  which,  belching  fire, 
was  to  run  through  Barnes  Gap,  and  the  white  rod 
that  was  to  pass  round  Ireland;  likewise  explain 
the  three  black  taxes,  which,  before  the  coming 
of  the  final  great  troubles,  were  to  be  levied  and 
lifted  with  steel  hands.  He  could  calculate,  al- 
most to  a  day,  the  period  which  was  to  fulfil  that 
part  of  the  prophecy  foretelling  that  the  seed 
should  rot  beneath  the  sod  and  the  crops  be  in 
mourning;  and  also  when  the  cow  should  bring 
the  full  of  her  horn  of  money,  and  the  black  cloud 
come  up  in  the  east,  and  the  red  wind  blow  out 
of  the  west.  Furthermore,  he  could  assure  his 
marvelling  listeners  that  the  strongest,  surest  sign 
which  was  to  precede  the  final  act  in  poor  Ireland's 
tragedy  was  now  with  them — for  in  the  Rosses 
there  lived  the  red-headed  miller  with  two  thumbs 
on  one  hand,  the  wheel  of  whose  mill,  as  fore- 
told, should  turn  three  times  with  the  blood  that 
was  to  flow,  before  our  freedom  was  won. 

Finally,  before  the  family  retired,  and  the 
bacach  couched  him  on   his  shake-down,  he  con- 


THE   BACACH 

sidered  it  his  duty  to  test  the  educational  progress 
of  the  youth  of  the  household. 

"In  mudeelis,  in  clanonis; 
In  firtaris,  in  oaknonis, 

— that's  a  little  thrifle  of  Greek;  could  you 
consther  it  for  me,  Johneen?"  But  as  it  was  surely 
Greek  to  poor  Johneen,  who  had,  the  Wednesday 
before,  been  promoted  to  reading  words  of  two 
syllables,  the  trembling  little  student  shook  his 
head.  Whereupon  the  bacach,  shaking  his  head, 
would  proceed  to  "take  him  on  the  Scriptures." 
"Can  you  tell  me,  me  fine  young  New-o-phyte,  the 
connection  between  the  Bloody  Wars  and  the  Com- 
ics seen  in  the  sky — referred  to  in  Holy  Write, 
eighteenth  and  nineteenth  Revolutions,  thirteenth 
chapture,  nine-and-twentieth  and  followin'  varses?" 
But  Johneen  was  just  as  shamefully  deficient  in 
Holy  Writ  as  in  Greek.  "Well,  then,  an  aisier 
wan,  more  shooted  to  your  sarcumscribed  intellectu- 
ality:  From  the  Canine  laws  of  the  Holy  Romans, 
can  you  prove  to  me  that  the  time,  and  times, 
and  half  a  time,  predicted  by  Colm  Cille  for  the 
landin'  of  the  Spaniards  in  Donegal  must  occur 
in  the  present  reign  of  the  thirteenth  queen  and 
king  of  haresy  in  England,  Victoria  being  both 
king  and  queen — Queen  of  England  and  Imp'ror 
of  India?  Ye  can't?  Very  well,  then  just  a 
thrifle  in  Coney-Sections. 

[186] 


THE   BACACH 

'As  I  was  goin'  to  sweet  Kildives, 
I  met  a  man  with  seven  wives; 
And  every  wife  had  seven  sacks; 
In  every  sack  was  seven  cats, 
And  every  cat  had  seven  kittens. 
Now,  kittens,  cats,  sacks  and  wives, 
How  many  went  to  sweet  Kildives?'  " 

But  little  Johneen,  dumbfounded  by  the  mighti- 
ness of  a  brain-racking  mathematical  problem  that 
was  fitted  to  floor  a  College  President,  fled  for  the 
shelter  of  his  mother's  skirts — and  in  his  heart  re- 
solved never  after  to  set  up  for  a  scholar. 

And  all  of  you  went  to  sleep  that  night  marvel- 
ling once  again  at  the  mightiness  of  the  intellect 
of  him  who  had  deigned  to  do  you  the  honour  of 
breaking  bread,  and  sheltering  for  the  night,  be- 
neath your  pitiably  humble  roof. 


[187] 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  KILLYMARD 

YOUR  parish — and  in  this  sure  it  was  only  like 
any  other  mountain  parish  in  Ireland — had 
done  homage  to  kindly  despot  after  kindly  despot 
as  bacach  succeeded  bacach  in  imposing  sway  upon 
the  charitable-hearted.  But  the  Bacach  Mor  (Big 
Beggarman)  maybe  reigned  longer  and  held  a 
heavier  rod  over  you,  his  worshippers,  than  did 
any  who  preceded  him.  His  knightly  figure  was 
to  be  seen,  and  his  grave  commanding  voice  heard, 
and  awe-inspiring  presence  felt,  in  the  chimney- 
corner  of  one  or  other  of  the  warmest  houses  in 
the  parish  for  many  a  long  year,  till  he  was  as 
much  of  an  institution  as  the  Lazy  Bush  or  Garrow- 
meena  Crossroads.  He  was  kindly  always — 
while  you  were  good.  But  when  you  needed  it, 
and  it  was  salutary  for  your  souls,  he  could  be  as 
punitive  as  the  potato-blight.  And  to  both  these 
merited  scourges  you  bowed  your  head  unmurmur- 
ingly. 

He  had  entered  Killymard  a  comparatively 
young  man,  and  taken  it  for  his  own — by  his 
splendid  personality  vanquishing  the  two  bacachs 
who  had  been  laying  it  under  tribute  ere  his  ad- 
vent.    In  it  he  grew  fat,  and  indolent,  and  (you 

[188] 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  KILLYMARD 

must  confess)  sometimes  ill-tempered,  as  cannot 
be  helped  by  one  spoilt  by  too  absolute  and  too 
worshipful  submission  of  his  subjects.  And  lazily 
content,  he  here  resigned  himself  to  rest  on  his  lau- 
rels, and  wear  out  his  remaining  days  lording  it 
over  you,  unworthy  of  the  honour  though  you 
oftentimes  proved  yourselves. 

But  God  will  still  dispose  even  though  bacachs 
propose.  And  it  was  so  in  this  case.  For  when 
the  Bacach  Mor  was  lulled  into  a  sense  of  false 
security  a  knight-errant  suddenly  appeared  in  the 
parish,  in  the  person  of  the  Bacach  Fada.  He 
was  a  muscular,  lithe,  jaunty,  tall  fellow,  who  car- 
ried his  myriad  bags  just  like  that  dandy  they 
called  Beau  Nash  might  carry  his  ball-clothes.  He 
was  a  superior  fellow  entirely,  who,  somehow,  in- 
spired you  all  with  respect  and  awe  immediately 
he  dawned  on  you.  He  must  have  only  risen  into 
the  fifties,  while  the  Bacach  Mor  was  dropping 
into  the  seventies.  And  the  Bacach  Mot's  soul 
was  troubled  the  first  minute  he  heard  of  this  de- 
tested invader. 

The  Bacach  Fada  laid  everyone  of  you  under 
the  most  abject  allegiance  to  him  in  every  house 
in  which  he  struck  his  staff;  and,  when  demand- 
ing the  parish  charity,  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  was 
a  bark  that  meant  business.     So  you  knew  that  he 

[189] 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  KILLYMARD 

must  be  a  great  fellow  entirely,  must  this  Bacach 
Fada. 

On  the  very  first  day  on  which  he  arrived,  from 
the-Lord-only-knows-where,  Father  Dan,  who  right 
heartily  disliked  what  he  daringly  called  "sturdy 
vagabonds,"  met  up  with  him  on  the  road,  and, 
reining  in  his  sorry  grey  mare,  and  rickety  car, 
shouted  at  him,  "Heigh,  fellow!  what  business 
brings  you  into  this  parish?" 

"The  same  business  as  yourself,"  the  Bacach 
Fada  replied,  taking  a  start  out  of  his  Reverence 
— "the  same  business  as  yourself,  your  Reverence 
— trying  to  take  all  I  can  from  innocent  people. 
If  you  say  nothin',"  said  he,  with  exasperating  con- 
fidentiality, "I'll  say  nothin'.  Good-bye!"  And 
before  poor  Father  Dan  recovered  from  his  dumb- 
foundedness  the  bacach  strode  past  him,  his  oak 
staff  gaily  swinging,  his  tatters  flying,  and  his  bags 
dangling  airily,  going  oft  with  the  honours  of  war. 

Unanimously,  as  you  fell  in  with  the  Bacach 
Fada,  you  assented  that  the  Bacach  Mor  was 
eclipsed.  And  the  Bacach  Mor,  as  he  heard  story 
after  story  of  the  newcomer,  felt  the  sceptre  shake 
in  his  grasp,  and — you  are  afraid — mortally  hated 
the  fellow  ere  yet  he  had  encountered  him. 

'Twas  in  Padeen  MacMullans'  that  they  met 
for  the  first  time.  You  mind  it  well.  You  were 
there.    The  whole  world  was  there — for  you  all 

[  190] 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  KILLYMARD 

expected  the  meeting  and  mental  combat.  The 
Bacach  Mor,  enthroned  in  the  chimney-corner,  had 
been  acting  the  autocrat  over  the  household — 
trembling  children  and  all.  He  gasped — it  was 
plain  to  be  seen — when  the  Bacach  Fada  suddenly 
entered  the  door,  casting  at  the  household  a  "God's 
blissin'  on  all  here,  barrin'  the  cat.  An'  on  you, 
too,  sir,"  to  the  scowling  Bacach  Mor,  who  was 
now  mustering  all  his  latent  scorn  for  the  pur- 
pose of  withering  the  fellow.  But,  alas,  the 
Bacach  Fada  seemed  to  mind  his  scowl  no  more 
than  he  did  his  smile.  He  planted  his  staff,  and 
shed  his  bags,  commanding  the  household  in  super- 
cilious tone  as  he  did  so;  and  then  enthroned  him- 
self in  the  chimney-corner  opposite  him  whose  seat 
he  had  come  to  usurp. 

The  Bacach  Mor  waited  impatiently  for  the 
opening  fire  from  the  enemy.  But  he  was  bitterly 
disappointed.  The  Bacach  Fada  crushingly  ig- 
nored him.  He  bore  himself  with  a  calmness  and 
a  seeming  unconsciousness  of  the  former's  pres- 
ence that  was  more  terribly  effective  than  could 
have  been  the  fiercest  frontal  assault.  He  had  a 
look  and  a  command  for  every  individual  in  the 
house,  except  the  ignored  one,  who  would  have 
parted  with  half  his  kingdom  for  a  deliberate  at- 
tack from  this  marauder.  The  cool,  calculating 
knavery  of  the  interloper  struck  a  chill  to  the  heart 

[191] 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  KILLYMARD 

of  the  Bacach  Mor,  and  dumbfounded  him.  The 
Bacach  Facia  demanded  supper,  chatted  away  with 
lofty  ease  while  it  was  in  preparation,  and  ate  it, 
when  ready,  with  the  indifference  of  one  who  was 
used  to  sup  in  kings'  courts.  When  the  meal  was 
finished,  he  ordered  the  abashed  children  around 
his  knee,  and,  audaciously  usurping  what  was  the 
universally-acknowledged  privilege  of  the  Bacach 
Mor,  began  putting  them  "through  their  facin's" 
in  grammar,  arithmetic  and  history,  both  sacred 
and  profane — with  the  nonchalant  ease  of  a  scholar 
who  had  taken  all  knowledge  for  his  province. 
He  propounded  to  them  posers  that  even  took 
away  the  breath  of  the  Bacach  Mor.  When  he 
had  riddled  the  children,  and  exposed  their  utter 
ignorance  of  the  most  elementary  knowledge  that 
his  great  mind  could  take  notice  of,  he  suddenly 
turned  full  face  upon  the  Bacach  Mor  and  hurled 
at  that  individual  a  string  of  questions  that,  in 
their  dazing  incomprehensibility  (to  common 
minds  like  yours  and  the  neighbours'),  completely 
eclipsed  the  most  admirably  astounding  that  the 
latter  had  himself  ever  propounded.  The  Bacach 
Mor  gasped  for  breath — and,  having  got  it,  bent 
upon  the  Bacach  Fada  his  heaviest  artillery,  which, 
however,  now  seemed  to  you  like  so  much  toy-gun 
play  opposed  to  the  real  thing.  The  unequal  duel, 
which  you  followed  with  breathless  suspense,  con- 

[192] 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  KJLLYMARD 

tinued  for  maybe  half  an  hour.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  the  Bacach  Mor,  for  whom  you  were  now 
feeling  the  most  painful  sympathy,  had  spent  all 
his  ammunition,  whilst  it  was  easily  seen  that  his 
opponent  had  not  yet  well  broken  upon  his  stock. 

"To  your  knees  for  the  Rosary!"  The  Bacach 
Fada  drew  out  and  jangled  at  the  family  a  rosary 
of  the  largest  beads  that  had  ever  dazzled  you. 

The  fellow  was  making  free  with  the  first  fruits 
of  his  victory.  With  the  Bacach  Mor  present, 
not  the  most  courageous  had  ever  before  dared  to 
usurp  his  unquestionable  prerogative  of  leading  in 
prayer.  Now  all,  tacitly  acknowledging  the  new 
despot,  sank  like  one  man  upon  their  knees.  Even 
the  Bacach  Mor,  after  some  moments'  hesitation, 
rolled  from  his  chair  with  a  groan  of  disgust,  and 
assumed  a  kneeling  posture  likewise.  The  Bacach 
Fada  led  the  Rosary  in  a  manner  that  was  inspir- 
ing and  impressive  to  everyone  of  you  who  heark- 
ened and  meekly  followed.  His  calm,  strong,  as- 
sertive voice,  as  it  swung  along  through  Pater  and 
through  Ave,  searched  the  very  corners  of  the  house, 
terrorizing  even  the  Bacach  Mor.  He  found  his 
voice,  though,  when,  after  everyone  else  had  led 
in  a  decade,  his  opponent  invited  him  to  add  his ! 
Then,  remembering  that  his  place  was  to  order, 
not  to  be  ordered — to  lead  instead  of  being  led — 
the  Bacach  Mor,  stung  into  his  sharpest  retort, 

[  193] 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  KILLYMARD 

replied:  "I  put  no  spoon  into  this  hippie-critical 
hash."  The  Bacach  Fada  did  not  annihilate  him 
by  replying  in  kind;  but,  picking  up  the  decade 
himself,  prayed  at  the  Bacach  Mor  with  look  and 
tone  that  certainly  awed  the  house,  and  must  have 
made  the  rude  one  shiver  in  his  soul. 

The  Rosary  finished,  and  the  children  put  to  bed 
in  the  outshot,  and  your  pipes  lighted,  the  Bacach 
Mor  bravely  entered  the  lists  for  the  final  and  de- 
ciding joust.  Before  him,  no  man  had  been  known 
with  such  store  of  ancient  lays  and  tales,  and  old- 
world  lore.  In  this  field  he  would  surely  put  his 
hated  enemy  out  of  combat.  But,  to  his  confound- 
ing, and  the  amazement  of  all,  this  newcome  King 
met  lay  after  lay,  and  capped  story  with  story, 
as  far  as  the  Bacach  Mor  would  or  could  go. 
And  when  far  in  the  night,  the  Bacach  Mor^s  store 
being  exhausted,  and  he  himself  in  like  case,  he 
thought  strategically  to  cover  his  retreat  by  quot- 
ing precedent  from  ancient  story,  and  time  long 
gone. 

"The  hairoes  of  old,"  he  said,  "gave  a  third 
of  the  night  only  to  stories  and  lays,  and  the  re- 
hearsal of  wonderful  adventures." 

"The  hairoes  of  old,"  the  Bacach  Fada  retorted, 
"gave  a  third  o'  the  night  only  to  stories  and  lays, 
and  the  rehearsal  of  wonderful  adventures,  but 
you  an'  me  are  goin'  to  exemplificate  to  our  audi- 

[194] 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  KILLYMARD 

ence  that  the  hairoes  of  the  present  day  takes  the 
win'  out  o'  the  sails  of  them  of  old.  We'll  give 
the  whole  of  the  night  to  the  same  things.  I'm 
now  goin',"  said  he,  as  he  shook  the  ashes  out  of 
his  pipe  and  proceeded  to  refill  it,  "to  reharse 
the  wonderful  adventures  of  the  King  of  Ireland's 
Thirteen  Sons,  every  one  of  which  undaunted 
champions  we'll  follow  individually  from  start  to 
finish  of  his  career."  The  Bacach  Mor,  when  he 
heard  this,  rolled  over  with  a  groan. 

And  when  the  Bacach  Fada,  after  cantering 
through  the  preliminary  history,  began  upon  the 
starting  away  from  home  of  the  First  Son  the 
Bacach  Mor  rolled  over  upon  his  other  side,  and 
groaned  again  with  a  groan  that  went  to  all  your 
hearts.  And  ere  the  Second  Son  was  turned  to 
rock  by  the  stroke  of  the  wizard's  rod  the  Bacach 
Mor  snored  deafeningly. 

The  Bacach  Mor  was  missed  when,  in  Padeen 
MacMullen's  house,  they  arose  the  following 
morning.  The  next  you  heard  of  him  he  had 
pitched  his  tent  on  the  other  side  of  the  hills,  in 
the  far-away  Glenties  parish. 

The  Masther,  when  he  heard  the  news,  said: 
"The  Lord  has  delivered  you  from  Nairo.  But 
Satan  has  sent  you  Caligula." 

Whatever  he  meant  by  that. 

[i95] 


DENIS  A-CUINN  AND  THE  GREY 

MAN 

HAUNTING  mystery  and  magic  were  in  the 
world  then.  And  magicians,  too — some 
good,  some  bad.  You  never  did  meet  any  of  them 
yourself,  though  you  longed  to.  But  you  heard 
of  them  in  plenty.  Many  men  who  were  old  when 
you  were  young  had  encountered  them.  Fasci- 
nated, spellbound,  sometimes  thunderstruck,  you 
sat  open-mouthed,  with  your  heels  in  the  ashes, 
hearing  the  wise  old  ones  tell  either  their  own 
adventure,  true  as  it  was  wonderful,  or  the  astound- 
ing adventure  of  one  whom  they  had  the  pride 
of  knowing.    And  it  was  a  rare  pride,  surely. 

Many's  the  one  of  them  had  known  Denis 
a-Cuinn  in  his  day.  And  no  one  of  them  ever  for- 
got him  or  could  forget  his  extraordinary  his- 
tory the  time  he  travelled  to  Dublin  with  the  Grey 
Man.  Many  a  time  you  listened,  entranced,  to 
the  telling: 

In  me  grandfather's  day  Denis  a-Cuinn  lived 
at  the  back  of  Glencoagh  hill.  The  family  was 
small  and  helpless  and  plenty  of  them  in  it;  so 
Denis  had  a  struggle  to  live  at  all,  let  alone  pay 
a  rack  rent.     Denis  "fell  behind"  three  or  four 

[196] 


DENIS   A-CUINN    AND   THE   GREY    MAN 

years  with  the  rent,  and  the  agent  noticed  him  to 
quit — which  meant  downright  ruin,  or  the  Work- 
house, for  the  poor  fellow,  out  and  out.  He 
didn't  know  what  to  do,  but  God  put  it  into  his 
head  to  go  to  Dublin  to  see  the  landlord  himself, 
and  lay  his  case  before  him.  It  was  small  stock 
he  owned,  but  he  had  one  snug  little  calf  that  he 
took  out  and  sold  and  got  a  pound  and  a  shillin' 
for.  And  puttin'  the  pound  and  the  shillin'  in 
his  pocket,  he  started  for  Dublin  next  mornin' 
early,  after  Peggy,  his  wife,  shook  the  holy  water 
on  him  and  bid  God  speed  him.  He  didn't  go 
far  on  the  way — only  somewhere  this  side  of 
Barnesmore  Gap — when  a  tall  man,  dressed  all  in 
grey  frieze,  with  a  high  hat,  cutaway  coat,  knee 
breeches,  and  brogues,  and  a  staff  in  his  hand, 
overtakes  him. 

"Ye  look  like  a  man  would  be  goin'  a  journey?" 
says  Denis  a-Cuinn,  says  he,  to  the  sthranger. 

"It's  what  I'm  doin',"  says  the  sthranger;  "I'm 
makin'  for  Dublin." 

"Throth  then,  that's  very  lucky,"  says  Denis, 
"for  it's  where  meself's  goin',  too.  I  was  never 
there  afore,  an'  don't  know  the  road." 

"Well,"  says  the  sthranger,  "I'm  familiar  with 
every  foot  o'  the  road;  an'  there  isn't  a  turn  or  a 
twist  in  Dublin  I  don't  know  besides,  nor  a  pavin' 
stone  on  the  streets." 

[i97] 


DENIS   A-CUINN    AND   THE    GREY    MAN 

"That's  very  lucky  entirely,"  says  Denis 
a-Cuinn. 

So  they  thravelled  on  together.  The  Grey  Man 
complained  of  the  drooth,  but  he  sayed  he  didn't 
like  drinkin'  from  the  streams  by  the  roadside. 
"And  don't  mind,  either,  dhrinkin'  from  them," 
says  Denis. 

So  the  first  public-house  they  come  to  Denis 
took  him  in  and  ordered  two  good  glasses  of 
whiskey  for  them  both.  When  the  Grey  Man 
drunk  his,  he  sayed:  "That's  good  all  through, 
and  it's  bad  all  through."  Denis  didn't  say  any- 
thing, but  paid  for  the  drinks  and  drunk  his  own. 
And  right  good  whiskey  it  was,  too. 

But  when  they  were  on  the  road  again,  making 
good  speed  and  chattin'  as  they  went,  says  Denis, 
says  he:  "What  did  ye  mean,  when  ye  drunk  the 
whiskey,  by  sayin'  'it  was  good  all  through,  and 
it  was  bad  all  through'?" 

And  says  the  Grey  Man:  "It  was  very  good, 
indeed,  to  be  drinking  that  glass — but  it  was  bad 
to  be  thinkin'  that  we  couldn't  have  two  more 
glasses — because  I  haven't  wan  penny  in  me  com- 
pany," says  he. 

"Oh,"  says  Denis,  "as  for  that,  don't  worry.  I 
have  a  pound  unbroken.  We'll  go  into  the  very 
next  public-house   we  meet,  and  have  two  more 

[198] 


DENIS   A-CUINN    AND   THE   GREY    MAN 

glasses.  And  afther  that,  as  far  as  my  money 
goes,  ye  won't  want." 

Accordingly,  into  the  very  next  public-house  they 
went,  and  Denis  a-Cuinn  changed  his  pound,  and 
paid  for  two  glasses  out  of  it.  And  after  that 
they  took  the  road  again,  and  thravelled  on  till 
they  come  to  a  farmer's  house  by  the  roadside, 
with  a  stack  of  turf  built  up  against  the  gable, 
an'  a  sthream  crossin'  the  road  a  bit  beyont  it. 
The  Grey  Man  went  up  to  the  turf  stack,  and  took 
two  big  black  turf  out  of  it;  and  when  they  passed 
on  a  bit,  and  crossed  the  sthream,  he  laid  down 
the  two  turf  on  the  road,  and  they  changed  into 
two  black  pigs.  Poor  Denis  a-'Cuinn  blissed  him- 
self, for  he  was  frightened  to  death,  and  he  said: 
"God  and  the  Bliss'd  Virgin  between  me  an'  harm ! 
You  must  be  the  divil  himself." 

"I'm  not,"  says  the  Grey  Man;  "I'm  as  honest 
a  man  as  yourself." 

The  two  of  them  then  walked  on  together,  the 
Grey  Man  dhrivin'  the  pigs  before  him;  and  it 
wasn't  long  till  they  met  three  jobbers  coming 
from  a  fair.  "How  much  will  ye  take  for  the 
pigs?"  says  they.  "I'll  take  five  poun',"  says  the 
Grey  Man.  And  the  jobbers  paid  him  down  the 
money  and  took  the  pigs  with  them. 

"Now,"  says  the  Grey  Man,  "we'll  have  money 
enough  and  to  spare." 

[  199] 


DENIS   A-CUINN   AND   THE   GREY   MAN 

"No,"  says  Denis  a-Cuinn,  "I  wouldn't  touch 
your  money.     It  isn't  honestly  come  by." 

"There  you're  wrong,"  says  the  other,  "for 
them  jobbers  rogued  our  people  out  of  a  good  deal 
more  than  live  pound,  the  day  at  the  fair." 

But,  behold  ye,  when  the  jobbers  had  driven  the 
pigs  as  far  as  the  farm-house,  and  the  stream 
crossin'  the  road,  doesn't  the  two  pigs,  the  minute 
they  touched  water,  turn  ins'antly  into  two  black 
sods  of  turf,  and  float  out  of  sight  down  the 
stream !  And  back  the  jobbers  turned  at  full 
speed  after  the  Grey  Man.  When  they  overtook 
the  two  thravellers  they  demanded  their  money 
back,  and  begun  haulin'  and  pullin'  and  draggin' 
the  Grey  Man,  till  doesn't  he  fall  stiff  dead  upon 
the  road.  And  when  the  jobbers  seen  that,  they 
turned  and  made  off  for  their  lives.  And  a  crowd 
gathered  about  the  dead  man;  and  Denis  a-Cuinn 
made  off  then,  and  thravelled  on  ahead.  When 
he  got  safely  three  or  four  miles  away,  he  went  on 
his  knees  under  a  bush  to  thank  God  for  gettin' 
separated  from  such  a  man,  who  must  surely  be  the 
Devil,  when  who  should  he  see  coming  up  till  him 
but  the  Grey  Man  himself! 

He  told  Denis  that  when  the  jobbers  had  gone, 
and  most  of  the  crowd  scattered,  too — for  fear 
they  would  get  mixed  in  the  affair — he  rose  up, 
and  the  couple  of  old  women  that  were  round  him 

[  200  ] 


DENIS   A-CUINN   AND   THE   GREY   MAN 

fell  over  in  a  dead  faint;  and  he  hurried  after 
Denis.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  for  Denis  to 
thravel  on  with  him.  So  on  they  went,  the  Grey 
Man  insistin'  on  payin'  all  expenses. 

Next  day,  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  they  were 
passin'  through  a  wood.  At  a  little  house  at  the 
commencement  of  the  wood,  the  Grey  Man  took 
up  an  old  creel  and  carried  it  with  him  on  his 
back,  and  when  they  were  well  in  the  heart  of 
the  wood,  where  there  was  a  great  lot  of  fairy- 
thimbles  (fox-glove)  growin',  an'  fir-cones  lyin' 
on  the  ground,  an'  spider-webs  on  the  branches  of 
the  trees,  the  Grey  Man  put  down  the  creel  and 
says  he  to  Denis,  "Help  me  fill  me  creel  with  all 
these  things."  An'  the  ins'ant  they  went  into  the 
creel,  the  fir-cones  were  changed  into  boots  and 
shoes,  and  the  fairy-thimbles  into  beautiful  hats 
and  caps,  and  the  spider-webs  into  webs  of  fine 
silk! 

Says  Denis:  "Ye  surely  must  be  the  Divil  out- 
an'-out." 

"No,"  says  the  other,  "I'm  as  honest  a  man  as 
you." 

Then  he  hoisted  on  his  back  the  creel ful,  an' 
the  two  of  them  stepped  out  again.  When  they 
got  clear  of  the  wood  they  met  a  pedlar,  and  says 
the  Grey  Man  to  him:     "Good  morra,  brother!" 

"Good  morra,"  says  the  pedlar;  "how  is  trade?" 

[201  ] 


DENIS   A-CUINN    AND   THE   GREY    MAN 

"Very  poor  entirely,"  says  the  Grey  Man.  "If 
I  got  any  wan  to  take  this  creel  ful  off  my  hands, 
a  bargain,  I'd  curse  the  trade  an'  quit  it." 

"How  much  are  ye  wantin'  for  it?"  says  the 
pedlar. 

"Only  five  poun',"  says  the  other.  There  an' 
then  the  pedlar  paid  him  down  the  five  poun',  and 
got  the  creelful  on  his  back,  and  went  off  with  it. 
"We'll  not  want  for  money,  now,  anyhow,"  says 
the  Grey  Man  to  Denis. 

"I  wouldn't  take  or  meddle  with  your  money," 
says  Denis,  "for  it  isn't  honestly  come  by." 

"Isn't  it?"  says  the  other.  "There  you're 
wrong,  for  in  wan  week  past  that  pedlar  has 
cheated  our  poor  people  out  of  twicet  that." 

But,  behold  ye,  the  pedlar  had  gone  on  with  his 
creel,  till  he  came  to  a  farm-house,  an,  goin'  in, 
he  asked  them  could  he  sell  them  anythin'  that 
day. 

"What   have  ye   got?"   says   the   bean-a-tighe. 

"The  best  o'  brogues,"  says  the  pedlar,  "grand 
hats  an'  caps,  and  the  finest  of  silk" — throwin'  the 
creel  on  the  floor. 

But  when  they  looked  into  it  they  all  burst  out 
laughin'  at  him — for  there  wasn't  anythin'  to  be 
seen  there  but  fir-cones,  fairy-thimbles,  and  cob- 
webs ! 

Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  the  mad  ped- 

[202  ] 


DENIS   A-CUINN    AND   THE   GREY    MAN 

lar  set  out  after  the  Grey  Man,  and,  overtakin' 
him,  the  very  same  thing  happened  that  happened 
with  him  and  the  jobbers  the  day  before.  And 
when  Denis  a-Cuinn  was  on  his  knees,  three  or 
four  miles  ahead,  thankin'  God  for  his  deliverance 
from  the  Divil's  company,  who  came  up  to  him 
but  the  Grey  Man  himself,  and  told  Denis  the 
same  story  over  again. 

Then  Denis  and  him  pushed  ahead,  and  they 
came  into  Dublin  the  evenin'  of  the  next  day;  and 
the  Grey  Man  took  care  of  Denis  till  he  left  him 
at  his  landlord's  hall  door.  And  there  they 
separated. 

When  the  landlord  heard  Denis's  case  through, 
he  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  the  agent,  for- 
biddin'  him  to  put  Denis  out  of  his  place,  and 
gave  the  letter  to  Denis,  and  a  pound-note  more- 
over, to  pay  his  way  back  again.  Poor  Denis 
thanked  him  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  and, 
when  he  left,  went  in  search  of  lodgin's  in  the 
most  backward  and  out-of-the-way  lane  he  could 
find  in  the  city.  "For,"  says  he  to  himself,  "I 
don't  want  the  Grey  Man  to  find  me  till  I  get 
safe  away  from  Dublin." 

Denis  got  lodgin's  in  a  very  out-of-the-way 
place  entirely,  and,  when  he  had  his  supper  taken 
— and  a  hearty  wan  it  was — and  was  in  bed  snug 
and  warm,  and  huggin'  himself  into  a  good  sleep, 

[203] 


DENIS   A-CUINN    AND   THE    GREY    MAN 

what  does  he  hear  but  a  knock  at  the  outside  door, 
and  when  it  was  opened  who  should  he  hear  but 
the  Grey  Man  steppin'  in  and  askin'  for  Iodgin' — 
which  he  got. 

There  was  but  wan  bed  for  rent;  so  the  Grey 
Man  was  put  in  along  with  Denis. 

"Oh,  is  this  yourself,  me  friend?"  says  the  Grey 
Man — all  as  if  he  hadn't  known  Denis  was  there 
at  all.  "And  how  did  ye  come  on  with  your  land- 
lord?" says  he. 

Denis  told  him  all ;  and  the  Grey  Man  said  he 
was  glad  of  it. 

In  the  mornin',  when  they  got  up,  says  the  Grey 
Man:     "I  want  ye  to  do  me  an  oblidgment?" 

"What  is  it?"  says  Denis. 

"I  want  ye,"  says  he,  "to  go  to  Dublin  Bridge, 
where  you'll  see  a  man  and  a  woman  with  a  pile 
of  earthenware  crocks,  sellin'  them.  If  the  man's 
in  it,  as  well  as  the  woman,  you're  to  come  back 
to  me  again,  as  ye  went.  But  if  there's  only  the 
woman,  you're  to  buy  a  crock  and  she'll  charge  ye 
ninepence  for  it.  Pay  her  a  shillin'  and,  while 
she's  gettin'  the  change,  take  this  hemp  knot," 
says  he,  giving  him  about  an  inch  or  two  of  knot- 
ted hemp,  "and  drop  it  quietly  into  another  of  the 
crocks.     Stand  by,  then,  and  see  what'll  happen." 

Denis  said  he  would.  He  set  out,  and  when  he 
came  to  the  bridge,  right  enough  there  was  a  pile 

[204] 


DENIS   A-CUINN   AND   THE   GREY    MAN 

of  crocks  there  for  sale;  and,  as  luck  would  have  it, 
the  woman  was  only  with  herself  with  them. 
"How  much  for  the  crocks?"  says  Denis,  says  he, 
walkin'  up. 

"Ninepence,"  says  the  woman. 

"I'll  take  wan,"  says  Denis,  says  he,  liftin'  a 
crock  and  handin'  her  a  shillin'. 

And  while  she  was  fishin'  up  the  change  out 
of  her  petticoat  pocket,  doesn't  Dennis  quietly 
slip  the  piece  of  knotted  hemp  into  another  crock. 
When  he  got  his  change,  he  stood  off  a  piece  on 
the  bridge,  to  watch.  And  he  seen  the  knot  of 
hemp  had  turned  into  a  rat,  and  was  leapin'  from 
wan  crock  into  another. 

There  was  a  crowd  of  idlers — as  always  there 
is — standin'  upon  the  bridge,  and  "Look!"  says 
wan  o'  them,  "look  at  the  rat!"  liftin'  a  stone  at 
the  same  time  and  lettin'  bang  at  the  rat,  and 
breakin'  a  crock. 

Every  fellow  of  them  then  stooped  for  stones, 
and  begun  peltin'  at  the  rat  that  skipped  safe  from 
wan  crock,  as  soon  as  it  was  smashed,  into  another. 
And  the  rat  jumped  in  and  out  through  the 
crocks,  and  the  fellows  yelled,  and  pitched  and 
smashed  afore  them,  without  heedin'  the  poor 
woman's  cries  and  roars  that  owned  the  crockery 
— till,  in  five  minutes'  time,  when  her  man  come 
tearin'  up,  and  got  hold  of  the  rat  be  the  cuff 

[205  J 


DENIS   A-CUINN    AND   THE   GREY   MAN 

of  the  neck,  and  threw  him  into  the  river,  there 
wasn't  a  sound  crock  left  out  of  all  the  pile  but 
what  was  in  smash  and  smithereens. 

And  the  man  and  woman  began  to  lament  and, 
"There,"  says  the  man,  says  he — "there's  me 
whole  twenty-five  pounds'  worth  of  crocks  gone 
to  smash!  But  I  know  the  meanin'  of  all  this," 
says  he  to  the  woman — "the  Boyo  must  be  in 
Dublin.  If  I  get  me  eye  on  him,"  says  he,  "it's 
me  that  will  make  him  sup  sorra  with  the  spoon 
o'  grief." 

Denis,  when  he  had  seen  and  heard  all  this,  set 
off  for  his  lodgin's.  There  the  lad  was  waitin', 
and  axed  what  news.  Denis  told  him  from  be- 
ginnin'  to  end  what  happened;  and,  when  he  heard 
it  all,  the  Grey  Man  was  right  well  plaised. 

"I'm  sorry  for  the  poor  man  an'  woman,"  says 
Denis,  "that  lost  all  their  crockery-ware,  and 
truble  sorry  that  meself  had  anything  to  do 
with  it." 

"Then,"  says  the  Grey  Man,  "ye  needn't  be 
sorry,  for  that's  the  biggest  vagabon'  in  all  Dub- 
lin. Twelve  months  ago  he  took  me  into  a  public- 
house  here  to  treat  me;  and  what  do  you  think 
did  he  do  but  change  me  into  a  goat  with  me  horns 
out  o'  the  windows,  so  that  I  couldn't  move  in  or 
out,  and  kept  me  that  way  for  three  whole  days, 
a  speck-tackle  for  all  Dublin!     I  swore  I'd  pay 

[206] 


DENIS   A-CUINN    AND   THE    GREY   MAN 

him  for  it;  and  now  I  have  done  it  I'll  go  home 
happy.  The  sooner,  too,  I'm  out  o'  Dublin  the 
better  for  me;  for  he'll  not  leave  a  mousehole  in 
the  city  he  won't  search  to  find  me." 

So  the  both  of  them  started  and  hurried  out  of 
Dublin  by  a  by-road,  and,  afore  night,  were  well 
on  their  way  back. 

They  thravelled  on  without  adventures,  the 
Grey  Man  payin'  their  way,  till  they  come  near 
Donegal  town.  "Now,"  says  the  Grey  Man, 
"we'll  have  to  separate  here.  But  before  we  part, 
I'll  give  ye  wan  piece  of  advice.  If  ye  ever  meet 
a  stranger  again,  and  you  goin'  to  journey  with 
him,  never  show  your  money  or  tell  that  you  have 
any.  But,"  says  he,  "because  by  good  luck  you 
met  a  gentleman  this  time,  and  showed  yourself 
such  a  generous  fellow,  and  whole-hearted,  tors't 
one  ye  thought  penniless,  ye'll  be  nothin'  the  poorer 
for  it.  Moreover,"  says  he,  "you've  done  me  an 
obligement  that  I  have  waited  long  and  thravelled 
far  to  find  one  who  would  do  it.  Accordingly," 
says  he,  "when  ye  reach  home,  go  to  the  ruins  of 
Micky  the  Miser's  old  house  in  the  upper  end  of 
Altidoo,  search  well  under  the  hearthstone,  and  see 
what  you'll  see." 

The  Grey  Man  then,  biddin'  Denis  good-bye, 
went  off  in  the  Tyrone  direction,  and  Denis  thrav- 
elled on  home.     But  he  didn't  lay  his  head  on  a 

[207] 


DENIS   A-CUINN    AND   THE    GREY    MAN 

pillow  till  he  took  a  pick  and  spade  and  went  off 
to  Micky  the  Miser's  old  house,  who  had  died 
without  lavin'  wan  belongin'  to  him.  And  under 
the  hearthstone,  sure  enough,  he  found  a  nest  of 
goold  guineas,  the  full  of  your  two  hands  1  "If 
ye  were  the  Divil,"  says  Denis,  says  he,  "ye  aren't 
half  as  bad  as  they  give  out  on  ye." 

And  from  that  day  forward,  as  all  the  worl' 
knows,  there  was  few  more  prosperous  people  or 
happier  than  Denis  a-Cuinn,  and  all  his  family. 

Though  him,  or  his,  or  one  in  the  country,  never 
after  seen  or  heerd  tell  of  the  Grey  Man. 


[208] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

IT  was  only  when,  on  the  seventh  day  out,  you 
were  awakened  at  four  in  the  morning  by  furi- 
ous commotion  among  your  fellow  second-cabiners, 
routed  out  of  your  berth,  swirled  up  the  gangway 
by  a  crazy  mob,  and,  in  the  cold  gray  dawn,  swept 
across  the  sloppy  deck  till,  with  glad  eyes,  you 
beheld  for  yourself  the  old  Head  of  Kinsale  shov- 
ing up  the  curtains  of  night  with  his  shoulder, 
and  heard  Danny  O'Flaherty,  as  if  he  were  at  a 
meeting  of  the  Friendly  Sons,  in  Fall  River,  re- 
citing to  the  wide-eyed,  tear-dimmed  multitudes : 

"Oh,  m'anam  le  Dhia*  but  there  it  is!  the 

dawn  on  the  Hills  of  Ireland ! 
God's  angels  liftin'  the  night's  black  veil  from 

the  fair,  sweet  face  of  my  Sireland ! 
Och  Ireland,  isn't  it  grand  you  look,  like  a 

bride  in  her  rich  adornin'  I 
With  all  the  pent-up  love  o'  my  soul,  I  bid 

you  the  top  o'  the  mornin' !" 

that  you  realized  you  were  really  and  truly  that 
wonderful  being  on  whom,   in  your  earlier  days, 

*My  Soul  to  God. 

[209] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

you  used  to  gaze  from  afar  with  awe  and  admira- 
tion— a  Come-Home  Yankee ! 

And  what  a  cheer  you  all  raised  at  sight  of  the 
jaunting  car  at  the  Customs'  House  gable!  And 
what  a  long,  loud  and  ringing  chorus  of  hearty 
laughter  when  you  saw  the  ass-and-cart  driven  by 
a  lad  of  fifty  (whose  legs  dangled  to  the  ground) 
come  tearing  down  the  wharf. 

"Boys,"  said  Larry  Sullivan,  "if  you  saw  that 
sight  on  FiP  Avenoo!"  And  then  again  you  all 
laughed  long  and  loud  at  the  real  wit  of  the  idea. 

"Or  on  Jackson  Boulevard!"  said  Chicago  Pat, 
causing  another  outburst. 

"Or  at  Golden  Gate  Park,  by  crickey !"  said  Tim 
O'Donnell,  evoking  a  laugh  not  less  hearty. 

All  wit  tokens  were  generously  accepted  that 
morning  without  any  boor's  pausing  to  ring  them 
on  the  counter.  And  the  dullest  among  you  were 
passing  counterfeits  in  bushels,  and  swelled  to 
bursting  with  the  returns. 

The  jaunting  car  and  ass-and-cart  were  glimpses 
into  a  far-gone  era,  an  antediluvian  world — a 
world  that  you,  wet-eyed,  left  behind  five  years  and 
seven  months  before,  while  yet  you  were  poor  and 
untravelled  and  had  hardly  learned  to  look  at  a 
wonder  with  your  mouth  closed. 

That  was  a  lee-and-long  time  ago,  indeed  !  And 
you  shook  your  head  sympathetically  at  the  vision 

[210] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

of  the  poor  shy  boy  in  homespuns  and  lob-sided 
cap  and  hesitating  speech,  who,  in  that  remote  era, 
masqueraded  as  you,  Dan  Mulhearn — you  with 
your  independent  air  and  your  Nassau  Street  suit 
and  your  ten  hundred  and  fifty-six  dollar  draft  on 
the  Derry  and  North- Western  Bank  in  your  breast- 
pocket !  You,  who  now  knew  Brooklyn  from  the 
Fulton  Ferry  to  Jamaica  and  from  Flatbush  to  the 
confines  of  Greenpoint;  who  had  learned  to  cross 
the  Brooklyn  Bridge  without  trembling;  had  seen 
the  Singer  Building;  had  gone  twice  through  the 
World's  Renowned  Waxworks  on  Twenty-third 
Street;  had  marched  up  Fifth  Avenue  in  a  Pat- 
rick's Day  procession,  and  even  seen  Boss  Croker 
himself  pass  in  his  automobile  one  day! 

Yes,  as  you  hurried  northward  on  your  train, 
you  sat  back  with  folded  arms  in  the  corner  of  your 
carriage  and  thought  of  that  poor  You  of  the 
dark  ages  and  smiled  again — quite  sympathetically, 
however.  But  the  boys  and  girls,  your  com- 
rades, did  not  leave  you  long  to  your  reflections. 
At  every  station  you  had  to  jam  your  head  out 
of  the  same  window  with  thirteen  others,  help 
the  girls  chaff  the  shy  stay-at-home  boys  who  had 
come  down  to  see  the  train  pass,  and  help  the 
boys  to  badger  the  haughty  railway  aristocrats — 
much  to  the  deep  alarm  and  trepidation  of  the 
gaping  stay-at-homes,  who  had  never  before  seen 

[211] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

anarchists  in  real  life.  And  when  Johnny 
Moroney,  who  was  going  to  Galway,  made  in- 
quiry of  the  gold-braided  duke  who  governed 
Limerick  Junction:  "Say,  boss,  what  kind  of  gol- 
dinged  one-horse  shay  is  this  rickety-rackety,  dead- 
march-in-Solomon  box  of  tricks  anyhow?"  that 
bloated  aristocrat  utterly  failed  to  find  utterance 
for  his  outraged  feelings,  but  blossomed  in  the 
face,  and  bloated  more  and  more,  till  it  became 
a  toss-up  whether  he  or  your  laughter-shaken  com- 
panions should  have  the  first  apoplectic  fit. 

These  people  deserved  a  shaking-up  anyhow, 
for  the  train  that  carried  you  North  was  a  slow 
old  cart,  sure — at  best,  going  not  more  than  forty 
miles  an  hour — and  you  didn't  know  how  you  had 
put  up  with  it  at  all,  at  all,  before  you  left  Ire- 
land long  ago.  Though,  of  course  (you  then  recol- 
lected), you  had  travelled  by  train  only  three  times 
in  that  far-away  former  life  of  yours,  and  those 
times,  ha !  ha !  you  were  saying  your  prayers 
all  the  way!  Well!  Well!  Well!  Wonders 
will  never  cease ! 

As  yourself,  Yankee  Dan  Mulhearn,  with  your 
sister-Yankee,  Susie  Covenay,  and  your  two  big 
American  trunks,  found  yourself  on  Charlie 
Kardy's  jaunting  car  driving  home  to  Knockagar 
from  the  Donegal  station,  and  saw  each  old  fa- 
miliar hill  and  burn  and  bush  arise  before  your 

[212] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

eyes,  a  something  strange  began  stirring  in  your 
breast  that  you'd  often  found  struggling  and  kick- 
ing there  when  you  were  stoking  your  engine  in 
the  Fulton  Street  power-house  or  stretching  to 
sleep  in  your  lonely  little  room  on  Underhill  Ave- 
nue. Even  amid  the  roar  of  revelry  on  Coney 
Island  these  same  pictures  had,  unbidden,  arisen 
before  your  mental  eye. 

When,  after  a  while,  people  in  the  houses  and 
on  the  hillsides,  noticing  the  Amerikay  trunks, 
came  running  out  and  rushing  down  to  put  CeaJ 
Mile  Fdilte  before  the  Come-Home  Yankees — 
whoever  they  might  be — it  dawned  on  you  that, 
after  all,  though  Ireland  was  antediluvian  and 
slow  and  funny,  it  held  a  something-or-other  that 
did  a  man's  soul  good — a  something  which  the  gal- 
loping greater  world  had  long  ago  bumped  out 
of  its  cart  and  which  you  now  acknowledged  was 
worth  a  world  in  itself.  Teague  Kennedy,  set- 
ting potatoes  half  a  mile  up  the  hill,  stuck  his 
spade  in  a  ridge  and  shouted  to  his  neighbours 
across  the  march-ditch  to  run,  for  there  was 
Charlie  Kardy  driving  two  Come-Home  Yankees 
from  the  station !  And  he  ran,  and  his  neighbours 
beyond  the  march-ditch  ran,  as  if  they'd  break  their 
necks,  all  to  intercept  you  and  put  welcome  before 
you. 

And  Denis,  the  tailor,   leaping  from  his   table 

[213] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

when  he  got  a  glimpse  of  the  car  rounding  the 
bend  of  the  road,  ran  out  in  his  stocking  soles, 
followed  by  Nelly  and  the  children,  everyone; 
and  Toal  a-Gallagher,  the  cobbler,  forgetting  the 
angry  customers  who  were  storming  at  him,  the 
arch-procrastinator,  threw  from  him  his  last  and 
brogue,  and,  tucking  back  his  apron,  ran  a  race 
with  customers  who  had  forgotten  their  wrath, 
the  yellow  dog  at  their  heels  trying  to  drown  their 
chorused  welcomes  by  its  three-ha'penny  bark. 
You  took  their  demonstrations  with  the  smiling 
calm  becoming  to  a  great  man  and  a  travelled,  and 
you  recognized  every  individual  of  them,  of  course 
— after  the  proper  few  moments'  hesitation. 

"Why,  if  this  isn't  Toal  a-Gallagher!"  Toal 
straightens  himself  for  pride  that  a  Yankee  re- 
members him.  "And  I  guess  this  is  your  wife, 
Susie?"  Adding,  to  Toal,  "Susie,  we  used  to  call 
her,  before  I  left  home." 

"Susie  herself  it  is  then,  sure  enough,"  Manus 
replied  for  his  overcome  better-half.  "What  an 
ojious  great  mimory  ye  have  entirely,  Dan." 

"Oh!  you  bet.  And  if  I  don't  mistake  me,  this 
person  I  calculate  is  Denis  Connolly,  who  used  to 
spoil  my  clothes  long  ago." 

"God  bliss  ye,  it's  what's  left  o'  him,"  Denis 
replies  for  himself,  and  wrings  your  hand  with 
both  of  his.     "An'  it's  right  hearty  welcome  ye 

[214] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

are  back  again  to  ould  Ireland !  And  it's  hale  and 
hearty  ye  are  lookin',  God  bliss  ye,  over  again ! 
And  I'm  sure  a  mortial  sight  of  money  ye  have 
in  that  terrible  big  trunk  of  yours — may  the 
Heavens  increase  it  to  ye!" 

But  your  poor  mother's  joy  at  your  unantici- 
pated arrival  was  almost  too  much  for  her.  And 
your  father  was  so  past  himself  with  delight  that 
he  could  only  smile  idiotically,  mutter  the  most 
ludicrous  commonplaces,  go  trotting  around  the 
house  lifting  everything  out  of  its  right  place  and 
setting  it  down  in  its  wrong  place,  under  pretense 
to  himself  that  he  was  tidying  up  in  honour  of 
the  Come-Home  Yankee. 

And  you  hadn't  your  coat  oft  till  the  house  was 
crammed  with  breathless  ones  who  ran  hither  from 
all  points  of  the  compass  when  the  news — even, 
it  seemed,  before  you  had  arrived — went  on  the 
wind's  wings  that  Yankee  Dan  Mulhearn  was 
home  from  Amerikay — and  your  poor  confused 
father  was  intercepting  the  welcomes  under  the 
temporary  delusion  that  it  was  he  who  was  the  re- 
turned Yankee. 

And  when  Long  John  Meehan  reminded  him 
that  he  was  only  a  stick-in-the-mud  who  had  never 
hardly  been  out  of  sight  of  his  own  dunghill,  he 
ran  to  your  mother  and  nearly  wrung  the  arm 
off   her,   welcoming   her   home.      And   your  poor 

[215] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

mother,  as  confused  as  your  father,  thought  for 
a  moment  that  the  big  Amerikay  trunk  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  floor,  which  everybody  was  fingering 
and  admiring,  must  be  hers.  But  when  calm 
reason  resumed  its  throne  in  the  brains  of  both, 
they  united  in  admiring  the  fine,  brave-looking 
boy  you  were,  entirely — and  praising  the  grand 
turn-out,  God  bless  you,  you  had  made — "though, 
to  be  sure,  it  ought  to  be  in  you  anyhow,  from 
both  sides  o'  the  house" — and  then  chey  nodded 
wisely  to  each  other. 

Your  mother  carried  around  your  black  over- 
coat with  the  "near-fur"  collar  for  everyone  to 
see  and  feel  and  test  and  admire.  And  your 
father  made  you  walk  up  the  floor  and  down,  till 
the  neighbours  could  see  the  strong,  fine,  manly 
shape  you'd  got  to  be,  and  carrying  your  head  like 
the  King  of  Ireland !  And  the  magnificent  Yankee 
suit  of  clothes  you'd  on — particular  attention  to 
which  he  bespoke  from  Denis,  the  tailor,  who, 
observing  it  with  critical  look  which  would  do 
credit  to  Fifth  Avenue's  greatest  clothes-artist, 
agreed  that  it  was  dandy  indeed — barrin'  a  defect 
in  the  stomach,  a  want  of  proper  hang  about  the 
trousers,  a  somethin'-or-other  a  little  awk'ard 
about  the  waist,  and  just-what-you'd-know  too 
much  of  a  fullness  in  the  collar.  And  the  neigh- 
bours in  chorus  agreed  that  it  was  a  beautiful  suit 

[216] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

of  clothes,  beautiful  entirely,  and  a  credit  to  Ameri- 
can tailors — but  that,  to  be  sure,  one  couldn't  ex- 
pect to  find  Denis  Connollys  everywhere. 

When  your  poor  mother  led  the  Rosary  that 
night  there  was  a  tremble  in  her  voice,  but  you're 
sure  the  Angel  never  marked  it  against  her;  and 
when  she  came  to  the  trimmings,  and,  through 
force  of  habit,  had  begun  unthinkingly  to  call  for 
the  usual  "Pater-and-Ave  for  our  poor  son  Dan 
wandherin'  in  the  Lan'  o'  the  Sthranger,"  she  sud- 
denly remembered  and  broke  down  entirely — and 
your  father  raised  a  whillalew  ! — and — and — well 
— ye  were  a  fool  yourself  as  well  as  any  of  them. 

All  that  night  and  the  next  day,  and  the  night 
after,  your  father's  house  was  like  a  cow-market. 
To  mention  that  there  was  no  sleep  in  it  would 
be  painting  the  primrose.  The  whole  townland  of 
Knockagar,  with  numbers  of  contiguous  town- 
lands,  slept  not.  No  door  was  closed  for  three 
days  and  three  nights.  The  neighbours'  feet  rested 
never,  their  tongues  seldom.  The  whole  world 
held  jubilee,  because  the  Yankee  was  come  home. 

All  the  more  joyful  was  that  jubilee,  since  you 
had  with  you — for  they  all  made  it  their  business 
to  know  this — a  draft  for  a  thousand  and  fifty-six 
dollars  on  the  Derry  and  North  Western  Bank. 
More  than  two  hundred  and  sixteen  pounds!  A 
fabulous  sum  that  set  people's  fancies  busy  wondcr- 

[217] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

ing  how  you  ever  got  it  anyhow,  and  planning 
whatever  under  the  sun  you  could  with  it  all,  at 
all!  Oh!  what  estates  they  could  buy,  what 
castles  they  could  build,  what  new  worlds  they 
could  create,  if  Heaven  had  only  put  such  unim- 
aginable wealth  their  way ! 

Not  that  they  envied  you  your  good  fortune. 
Far  from  it.  In  the  depths  of  their  deep  hearts 
they  wished,  if  such  were  possible — and  if  you 
could  hear  it  without  your  reason  getting  un- 
settled— that  the  good  Lord  had  doubled  your 
enormous  wealth  to  you.  "Sure,  God  bliss  him! 
and  bliss  the  poor  old  father  and  mother  that  he 
has  made  proud  and  happy  and  indepindint  for 
the  remainder  of  their  days — sure,  it's  desarvin' 
of  it  all  he  is!"  So  they  with  fervent  sincerity 
said.  And  they  made  your  heart  very  happy,  for- 
getting for  the  moment  that  you  were  a  cold 
Yankee — and  you  wished  in  your  soul  they  were, 
everyone  of  them,  millionaires  like  yourself. 

At  least  a  dozen  women  sat  around  while  you 
unpacked  your  trunk — not  merely  those  who  knew 
that  you  bore  them  presents  from  their  daughters 
in  Brooklyn  and  Jersey  and  Philadelphia,  but  like- 
wise those  few  poor  ones  who  had  been  in  attend- 
ance at  the  coming  home  of  every  Yankee  for 
the  past  fifteen  years,  gambling  with  the  hope  that 

[218] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

their  daughters,  from  whom  alas !  they  had  never 
heard,  might  at  last  have  remembered  them. 

And  there  were  women  who  had  no  daughters 
abroad  and  could  expect  nothing,  but  who,  in 
their  woman's  way,  thirsted  to  see  the  wonders. 
And  every  dress  and  pair  of  boots  and  bonnet  and 
book  and  bit  of  finery,  handed  out  to  one  or  other 
overjoyed  recipient,  was  accorded  a  clasping  of 
hands  and  a  turning-up  of  eyes.  Wondered  at 
and  enthused  over,  it  was  handled  and  tested, 
viewed  before  the  light  and  against  the  light,  pro- 
nounced perfect,  and:  "Well,  just  like  what  you'd 
expect  out  of  Amerikay."  And  the  lucky  one  was 
overpowered  with  expressions  of  envy. 

America,  its  wonder,  its  greatness,  its  grandeur, 
its  unimaginable  wealth,  was  the  topic  of  conver- 
sation nightly  at  every  fireside,  at  every  wake,  on 
the  way  to  Mass.  With  the  groups  that  stood 
in  the  chapel-yard,  you  were  the  observed  of  all 
observers — you  and  Yankee  Susie  Covenay.  It 
made  you  feel  still  prouder  and  walk  still  straighter 
and  throw  your  head  still  further  back  when, 
on  passing  every  group,  you  heard  them  whisper: 
"There  goes  Yankee  Mulhearn!"  In  fact,  you 
had  never  quite  realized  till  now  how  wonderful 
and  great  and  grand  and  wealthy  America  was, 
and  how  mighty  proud  every  Yankee  like  yourself 
should  be. 

[219] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

The  boys  all  envied  you.  There  was  sorrow  a 
doubt  of  it — glory  be  to  goodness !  The  girls  all 
admired  you — still  less  doubt  was  there  (in  your 
mind)  of  this.  When  with  your  own  grand  air, 
but  also  your  own  graciousness,  you  addressed 
these,  they  blushed  becomingly  and  cast  down  eyes 
that  they  had  little  need  to  be  ashamed  of,  and 
spoke  very  soft  and  low  in  reply.  And  if  you 
suddenly  turned  when  you  had  passed  the  shawled 
group  of  them,  you  surprised  them  in  the  guilty  act 
of  casting  after  you  glances  of  unrestrained  admira- 
tion. At  the  dance  and  at  the  wedding  and  at 
the  fair,  the  stay-at-home  boys,  knowing  their 
place  and  their  worth,  backed  away  from  the  girls 
and  left  you  a  free  field,  and  every  girl  of  them 
found  her  innocent  heart  beat  with  joy  when  you 
claimed  a  walk  or  a  dance  with  her. 

Yes,  where  all  the  girls  gave  you  admiration 
all  the  boys  gave  you  reverence — except,  of  course, 
the  Satirist.  And,  sure,  every  countryside  had  its 
Satirist.  He  was  the  one  thorn  in  the  Yankee's 
bed  of  roses.  Nothing  dazzled,  let  alone  dumb- 
founded, him.  The  flower  of  reverence  could  never 
be  coaxed  from  the  arid  soil  of  that  soulless  one. 
By  one  little  word,  or  one  little  dry  remark  ut- 
tered in  a  cruelly  casual  way,  from  his  own  remote 
corner  of  the  dance  house,  this  rascally  fellow  hurt 
Yankee  feelings  considerably.     And  were  not  you 

[  220  ] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

a  person  of  extraordinarily  great  faith,  he  might 
have  undermined  your  confidence  that  a  Come- 
Home  Yankee  was  the  greatest,  the  most  dazzling, 
thing  the  world  ever  knew. 

But  your  great  faith  was  at  length  justified;  for 
when,  on  the  third  Sunday  after  you  had  come 
home,  you  marched  down  the  chapel-yard,  not 
merely  linking  Cassie  McGarry  and  helping  her 
pick  her  steps  through  the  dirt,  but,  to  crown  your 
audacity,  holding  her  own  umbrella  over  her  head, 
not  only  were  the  weak-kneed,  whose  faith  had 
been  shaken  by  the  Satirist,  strengthened,  but  the 
Satirist  himself  was  in  sight  of  all  dumbfounded. 
And,  his  villainous  presence  of  mind  forsaking 
him,  he  was  heard  to  exclaim  despairfully,  after 
his  speech  returned:  "Well,  Amerikay  is  the  divil, 
and  Yankees  bate  the  divil  out  an'  out!" 

Yes,  Dan,  your  name  was  AUDACITY  with 
every  letter  in  it  a  capital — and  the  same  was  the 
name  of  every  mother's  son  of  your  brother 
Yankees-Come-Home !  As  cool  as  a  trout  in  a 
pool,  the  astounded  boys  saw  you  step  up  to  the 
Masther  in  the  fair,  Masther  Gallagher  of  the 
Gortmore  school,  and  shake  his  hand  with  an  ease 
and  familiarity  that  took  away  their  breath  and — 
ask  him  to  have  a  drink  with  you !  The  thunder- 
struck ones  were  hardly  surprised — nothing  would 
surprise  them  after — when  the  Masther  not  only 

[221  ] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

smiled  on  the  lese-majeste,  but  actually  complied! 

In  that  Fair  of  Glenties  the  second  week  after 
the  raft  of  you  Yankees  came  home,  sure  you  were 
every  man  of  you  kings.  And  every  Yankee  girl 
a  queen.  Not  merely  were  you  the  cynosure  of 
all  wondering,  envying,  admiring  eyes,  but  you 
were  the  suns  round  which  the  Fair  rotated. 
Rather,  maybe,  you  were  Jupiters — everyone  of 
you  with  his  little  group  of  satellites  revolving 
round  him  and  turning  on  your  own  orbits  at  the 
same  time.  And  the  gold  you  threw  about !  flung 
abroad  like  dirt  in  fistfuls!  treated  with  contempt! 
till  the  boys  really  did  believe  that  you  Yankees 
tramped  the  glittering  thing  underfoot  on  the 
streets  of  Philadephia  and  Brooklyn !  It's  a  cer- 
tainty that  fifteen  shillings  didn't  excuse  you  that 
reckless  day. 

And  when  Yankee  brother  met  Yankee  sister 
in  the  Fair  of  Glenties,  Solomon  and  the  Queen 
of  Sheba,  had  they  come,  would  have  sulked  un- 
minded  in  a  corner.  And  when  Yankee  brother 
met  Yankee  brother  and  spoke  offhandedly  of 
Myrtle  Avenue  and  Prospect  Park  and  Coney, 
you  owned  the  world !  Or  it  was  like  the  con- 
junction of  the  suns  of  two  systems.  And  you 
didn't  seem  to  mind  your  greatness  at  all,  at  all. 
You  were  light-hearted,  light-minded,  debonair  as 
people  on  whose  shoulders  lay  no  load  that  would 

[  222  ] 


C/3 

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o 
v. 


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fa 
O 

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O 
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O 

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u 

fa 

a 

H 

fa 

a! 
fa 

o 
:* 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

sink  the  Jap  navy.  Therein,  in  fact,  your  dazzling 
greatness  lay.  In  the  Fair  that  day  were  scores 
of  poor  boys  from  the  mountains  in  caps  and  flan- 
nel jackets  that  their  mothers  had  made,  who 
would  have  pawned  anything  but  their  souls  to  be 
one  of  you.  And  the  Yankees  at  the  Fair  were 
the  one  topic  of  conversation  in  the  mountain  val- 
leys for  a  month  after. 

It  is  true  that  the  soulless  satirist  of  the  moun- 
tain valley  guessed  that  surely  one  must  have  to 
look  at  the  President  of  the  United  States  him- 
self through  a  smoked  glass.  But  the  profane 
fellow  was  met  by  a  nipping  frost  which  stimulated 
him  to  put  his  pipe  in  his  pocket  and  go  to  his  neg- 
lected home. 

Even  when  the  great  throng,  of  your  reception 
was  over,  your  home  was  no  night  devoid  of 
visitors.  Through  six  and  seven  and  ten  and 
twelve  miles  of  bog  and  mountain,  in  rain,  hail 
or  sun,  poor  men  and  women  trudged  to  inquire 
with  tears  in  their  eyes  whether  you  saw  their 
little  Johnny,  who  was  in  Galveston,  and  Annie 
in  Portland,  Maine,  and  La'rence,  in  Keokuk,  and 
Neil,  who,  the  last  news  was  from  him,  was  Lord 
Mayor  of  Rahway,  New  Jersey.  There  was  a 
feeling  of  disappointment  and  surprise  if  you  had 
neither  met  nor  heard  of  Mrs.  Carney's  little 
Peter,  who  lived  at  57V2  Stave  Street,  Chicago, 

[  223  ] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

and  was  boss  over  a  street  squad — because,  "God 
bliss  ye,  there  isn't  a  chile  in  Jee-cago  town  but 
knows  Pether,  I'm  towld."  Your  sojourn  in 
America  hasn't  profited  you  as  much  as  Mrs. 
Carney  expected. 

Nevertheless,  you  had  yet  seen  scores  and  scores 
of  their  boys  and  girls.  And,  to  the  comforting 
of  their  fathers  and  mothers,  they  learn  that  they 
are,  every  soul  of  them,  doing  well  and  a  credit  to 
those  who  reared  them  and  the  country  they  came 
from. 

And  it  was  indeed  a  true  pleasure  to  you, 
though  you  do  not  know  Mrs.  Carney's  Peter  even 
by  repute,  to  be  able  to  tell  Mrs.  O'Lynn  that  her 
son  Andy,  who  picked  up  his  only  little  learn- 
ing at  the  Drimore  night  school  during  parts  of 
two  hard  winters,  is  now  earning  five  thousand  dol- 
lars a  year  and  bidding  fair  soon  to  be  the  big- 
gest man  in  the  biggest  dry-goods  concern 
in  Philadelphia.  And  to  tell  Red  Nahor 
MacHugh  of  the  Bog  that  his  boy,  Pat- 
rick, who  was  the  swiftest  shearer  of  corn 
that  the  Parish  of  Inver  ever  knew,  was  made 
Appellate  Judge  in  Boston  the  Wednesday  before 
you  sailed.  And  to  tell  Maurice  Managhan  that 
Michael,  his  boy,  is  the  whole  Law  and  the 
Prophets  to  the  Brooklyn  Ninth  Ward. 

An  easy  and  pleasant  task  it  was  to  you  to  tell 

[224] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

Sheila  McGrady  all  about  her  little  Norah,  whom 
her  employer  on  Long  Island  wouldn't  part  with 
for  gold — Norah,  who  is  a  model  to  the  Ameri- 
can girls,  and  who,  by  work  of  her  little  hands 
in  American  kitchens,  had  paid  all  the  rent  and 
lifted  the  cart  load  of  debt  off  her  father's  farm, 
built  her  father  and  mother  a  new  housep  stored 
and  stocked  it  warmly  within  and  without,  and 
had  her  parents  go  the  best-dressed,  warmest-clad, 
lightest-hearted  pair  that  walked  to  Frosses  chapel 
on  a  Sunday. 

Yet,  to  be  sure,  it  was  hard  and  very  hard  on 
you  when  the  Widow  Conaghan,  unexpectedly 
dropping  in,  besought  you  to  tell  her  how  the 
child  of  her  heart,  Corney,  was  making  out  in  the 
States,  and  that  you,  taken  off  your  guard,  had 
to  hem  and  haw  and  spar  for  wind,  till  you  found 
words  to  inform  her  that,  "Oh,  yes,  yes,  Corney? 
To  be  sure,  Corney — yes — Corney.  Oh,  Corney  ! 
He's  making  out  bravely,  I  guess.  Yes,  Corney, 
he's — you  see,  Mrs.  Conaghan,  the  times  in  Amer- 
ica aren't  what  they  used  to  be — that  is,  for  a  little 
while — they're  going  to  pick  up  again  immedi- 
ately, though — and  Corney,  meanwhile,  is  doing 
as  well  as  can  be  expected,  all  things  considered — 
Corney,  the  reason  you  didn't  hear  from  him, 
of  course — he  was  just  out  of  a  job  for  a  little 
while  and  was  lazy  to  write,  till  he'd  have  more 

[225] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

cheery  news — but — but — there's  no  telling  how 
soon  a  job  will  turn  up — maybe,  please  God,  he 
has  one  now — and  you'll — maybe — get  a  good 
letter  from  Corney  very  soon." 

For  a  Yankee  so  audacious  as  you,  it  was  a  poor 
blundering  effort,  and  you  despised  yourself  as 
you  tried  to  swallow  your  spittle  at  the  conclu- 
sion, even  though  the  pathetic  eyes  of  the  neigh- 
bours who  sat  around  the  wall  looked  pride  on 
you  for  what  they  thought  was  a  situation  well 
saved.  And  as  you  looked  into  the  beautiful,  pa- 
tient, sweet,  deep-lined  face  of  the  Widow 
Conaghan,  framed  in  its  white  cap,  you  cursed 
the  wastrel  Corney  in  your  heart.  And  you  had  to 
lie  like  the  Father  of  Lies  again  when  old  Manny 
McGragh  came  in  from  Edrigol  Mountain  to  ask 
how  was  his  poor  boy  Francis  doin' — and  what  was 
the  raison  he  wouldn't  write  his  poor  oul'  father. 
Francis  had  been  killed  by  a  trolley  car  six  years 
before,  and  the  black  tidings  had  been  hidden 
from  his  father  ever  since.  The  Come-Home 
Yankee's  bed  wasn't  all  of  roses. 

Tea  parties  go  leor  from  the  top  to  the  bottom 
of  the  parish  you  were,  of  course,  invited  to.  Tea 
parties  especially  in  your  honour,  or  in  honour  of 
all  the  Yankees.  Tea  parties  to  the  decking  of 
which  came,  in  rushing  streams,  tributary  loans — 
spoons  and  forks  and  knives  and  linens  and  china — 

[226] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

the  pick  of  the  parish.  Tea  parties  where  you 
were  treated  not  merely  to  cappered  oat  bread, 
but  white  bread  from  the  town  also,  and  currant 
bread,  and  bread  with  raisins  in  it.  Tea  parties 
where  Nabla  MacMullan  made  her  husband 
Teddy  (nick-named  "The  Rooshian,"  because  of 
his  roughness)  reverse  the  usual  order  of  things 
with  him  and  sit  down  to  table  with  his  hat  off 
and  his  coat  on,  letting  the  saucer  go  to  waste, 
too,  while  he  drank  his  tea  from  the  cup — and 
that,  too,  without  daring  to  blow  into  it — unless, 
of  course,  on  occasion  when  he  saw  Nabla's  atten- 
tion otherwise  absorbingly  occupied. 

You  brought,  of  course,  your  choicest  Yankee 
accent  to  these  parties.  To  be  sure,  it  is  not  sug- 
gested that  your  Yankee  accent  was  not  at  all  times 
choice,  for,  indeed,  it  ever  fascinated  all  hearers. 
But  there  are  degrees  even  in  perfection,  and  you 
talked  Pennsylvanian  which  you  had  acquired  from 
a  seamstress  on  Underhill  and  Park  at  tea 
parties  for  the  delectation  of  the  company.  And 
you  talked  the  wonders  of  America,  too. 

When  you  told  how  American  trains  went  so 
swiftly  as  to  make  the  mile-stones  like  paling  posts, 
Teddy  MacMullan,  opening  both  mouth  and 
eyes,  absorbed  it  fascinatedly.  Yet,  when  you  said 
there  were  houses  in  New  York  twenty-three 
stories  high,  "more  than  your  house,  Teddy,  which 

[227] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

is  seven  feet  to  the  eave,  piled  twenty-three  times 
on  top  of  itself,"  Teddy  closed  his  mouth  firmly 
and  looked  at  you  out  of  very  narrow  eyes  indeed. 
And  when  you  capped  the  climax  by  saying  that 
the  Dutchmen  could  speak  to  each  other  in  Dutch 
and  understand!  Teddy,  utterly  ignoring  the  rain 
of  deadly  daggers  that  Nabla's  eyes  were  hurling 
at  him,  clapped  his  hat  hard  down  upon  his  head, 
gave  a  savage  grunt  and  took  his  departure — mad, 
of  course,  but  yet  with  morals  unsmirched ! 

To  the  credulous  ones  who  remained  at  the 
Arabian  Nights  Entertainment,  you  told  of 
bridges  above  the  tops  of  the  houses,  trains  fly- 
ing over  your  head  as  you  walked  the  streets, 
horses  and  wagons  and  their  loads,  and  carriages 
and  cars,  driving  right  straight  into  a  boat  and 
being  boated  across  rivers,  and  railroads  not  only 
under  the  foundations  of  houses,  but  under  the 
beds  of  rivers  also !  Jimminy  Heggarty  from  the 
Long  Bog  gave  vent  to  the  suppressed  feelings  of 
the  tea  party  when  he  said:  'Thank  God,  childer, 
that  we  have  Irelan'  to  live  in!" — "And,"  said 
Black  Patrick  Carney,  "that  we're  allowed  to  die 
natural  daiths." 

Which  latter  remarks  suggested  to  you,  who 
knew  how,  here,  the  news  of  a  child's  death  was 
immediately  flashed  over  twelve  miles  square, 
drawing  to  wake  and  funeral  representatives  from 

[228] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

all  families,  that  you  tell  them  of  hearses  driving 
up  to  houses  in  the  same  street  with  you — once 
actually  to  the  house  next  door — and  taking  away 
one,  whose  death,  let  alone  whose  life,  though 
you  lived  in  that  street  for  three  years,  you  had 
never  heard  of!  And  you  recollect  how  a  thick 
silence,  which  one  might  have  turned  with  a 
plough,  thereupon  fell  on  the  company,  and  Black 
Patrick,  to  save  your  feelings,  asked  Mrs.  Nabla 
to  plaise  give  him  a  cup  o'  tay  strong  enough  for 
a  duck  to  walk  on,  adroitly  turned  the  conversa- 
tion to  politics,  and,  marvelling  that  a  human 
was  permitted  to  shake  hands  with  the  President, 
inquired:  "What's  the  raison,  anyhow,  your 
Prisident  o'  the  United  States  doesn't  order  the 
London  Parlymint  to  free  Ireland?" 

You  may  as  well  confess  that  when  you  came 
home  you  had,  in  the  back  of  your  head,  the  idea 
that  you  might  settle  down  with  yellow-haired 
Bridie  Brennan  and  be  happy  ever  after,  like  they 
are  in  the  stories.  But,  to  the  dashing  of  your 
Yankee  audacity,  you  found  that  Bridie  preferred 
Taigue  Dornan,  who  had  never  travelled  farther 
than  to  Donegal  in  his  life — except  once  when  he 
went  to  Ballyshamy,  eleven  miles  beyond,  with  a 
load  of  plenishing  for  Minister  Stewart.  And 
the  little  shock  steadied  you. 

You   re-roofed  your   father's   house   while  you 

[229] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

were  at  home  and  put  slates  on  it  instead  of  straw, 
and  limed  it  and  added  a  new  room.  And  you 
put  extra  stock  on  his  land  and  employed  men  to 
drain  it  and  bought  fresh  seed  and  artificial 
manure  for  it,  and  put  up  a  new  hay-barn  and  a 
pump,  till  people,  in  despair,  stopped  straining 
their  imaginations  in  vain  conjecture  what  was 
the  next  thing  the  Yankee  would  take  it  into  his 
head  to  do,  anyhow. 

You  paid  off  all  the  debt,  of  course.  And  you 
laid  in  a  fine  supply  of  meal  and  flour  and  flitches 
of  bacon.  And  you  had  a  carpenter  for  three 
weeks  making  chairs  and  tables  and  doors  and 
putting  up  a  ceiling.  And  you  gave  a  tidy  little 
sum,  indeed,  to  your  father  and  mother  and  put 
a  nice  penny  in  the  bank.  And  you  then  said 
in  God's  name  you'd  face  the  water  again  and 
wouldn't  think  of  settling  down  till  you'd  come 
back  in  five  years  more  with  your  little  pile  in- 
creased. Your  father  and  mother  were  both  silent 
when  they  heard  this ;  but  they  didn't  like  to  gain- 
say you,  so  you  took  your  passage  to  sail  from 
Derry  on  Friday-come-eight-days.  And  then  you 
began  at  leisure  to  travel  all  the  countryside,  say- 
ing good-bye  again,  just  as  you  did  at  the  first 
going-off  long  ago,  to  every  man,  woman  and  child, 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  parish. 
And  of  the  band  of  seven  of  you  that  had  come. 

[230] 


THE  COME-HOME  YANKEE 

home,  you  found  that  three  were  going  back. 
Susie  Covenay  and  another  of  them  had  married 
and  found  happiness  and  content  and  never  wanted 
to  leave  Ireland  more.  Two  of  them  hadn't  mar- 
ried, but  hoped  to,  and  had  their  eye  upon  likely 
mates — and  had  opened  country  shops  meanwhile. 

There  was  a  convoy,  of  course.  The  three  of 
you,  for  the  convenience  of  your  mutual  friends, 
who  otherwise  would  have  found  it  too  strenuous 
to  enjoy  three  convoys  in  the  one  night,  blended 
your  convoys  into  one,  which  was  held  in  Long 
John  McGinty's  big  barn.  There  was  eating  and 
dancing  and  revelry  go  leor — the  very  best  way 
to  beguile  sad  hearts  at  parting — to  lift  your  mind 
oft  your  going  and  your  father's  and  mother's  and 
friends'  minds  also. 

But  that  heartrending  cry  of  your  mother's  that 
you  stuffed  your  two  ears  against,  when  in  the 
cold,  gray  dawn  you  hurried  up  the  hill  on  your 
way  to  Derry,  still  rings  in  your  ears,  as  you  now 
rush  your  car  down  Vanderbilt  Avenue,  and  crash 
with  it  through  Fulton  Street,  or  sweep  with  it 
like  a  bird  over  the  Bridge — rings  in  your  ears 
and  calls  in  your  heart,  and  gives  you  peace,  nor 
night  nor  day,  till  you  make  up  your  mind  (as  fast 
you  are  doing)  once  more,  and  soon,  to  be  again, 
and  evermore  to  remain,  till  the  Day  of  the  Dark 
Harvester,  a  Come-Home  Yankee ! 

[231  ] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

THERE  are  more  neighbours  at  Knockagar 
than  are  on  the  priest's  books.  On  the 
green  hillsides  of  Ireland,  as  yourself  knows  well, 
and  you  surely  ought  to  know,  there's  hardly  a 
foot  of  ground  without  its  fairy.  In  your  grand- 
father's time,  to  be  sure,  there  were  five  against 
the  one  that  now  is. 

But,  alas  I  like  the  strapping  boys  and  sweet 
catlini  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  the  fairies,  too,  are 
fast  becoming  fewer.  At  least  they  show  them- 
selves less — to  punish  a  generation  that  knows  too 
much.  Your  grandfather,  and  even  your  father 
before  you,  could  scarcely  walk  out  of  a  Summer 
evening  or  by  a  harvest  moonlight  without  meet- 
ing troops  of  them.  Now  you  might  ride  a  race- 
horse from  candle-light  to  cock-crow  and  count 
yourself  lucky  if  you  met  one.  As  often  as  not, 
you'd  meet  maybe  none  at  all,  at  all.  Yourself 
and  your  age  hardly  merit  such  honour.  But  even 
the  one  or  two  or  the  few  you  might  be  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  find  are  far  from  being  as  frolicsome, 
and  are  not  a  hundredth  as  good-hearted  as  the 
fairies  with  whom  your  grandfather  was  familiar. 
Your  grandfather's    fellows,   however,   whom   he 

[232] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

left  behind  (and  who  are  coming  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  Death  is  absent-minded),  can  yet  see 
more  in  a  mile's  walk  than  could  you  if  you 
searched  for  a  month.  And  your  grandfather's 
survivors  when  they  meet  at  a  wake,  and  for  the 
thousand  and  first  time  conclusively  prove  that 
the  world  is  retrograding,  consent  that  even  the 
fairies,  who  always  were  the  friends  of  man,  are 
on  the  edge  of  giving  up  for  hopeless  a  world 
that's  become  unworthy,  and  a  people  more  un- 
worthy still.  And,  as  you  listen,  you  and  your 
comrades,  who  had  good  conceit  of  yourselves,  feel 
yourselves  grow  small  enough  to  crawl  through 
keyholes. 

It  is  only  by  comparison  with  more  favoured 
times,  however,  that  you  can  call  the  fairies  now 
few.  You  very  well  know  that  their  numbers  are 
far  from  what  they  used  to  be,  when,  as  old  Conal 
MacCallig  informed  you,  they  hung  in  the  air  as 
thick  as  haws  on  the  thorn-bush — not  visible, 
though,  except  to  a  rare  and  favoured  few.  But 
from  your  own  knowledge,  and  the  knowledge  of 
hundreds  whom  you  know  well  among  the  hills, 
they  are  far  from  few  in  Ireland  yet.  To  be  sure, 
they  are  much  more  seldom  seen;  and  Conal  Mac- 
Callig assures  you  that  is  the  punishment  and  loss 
of  people  of  little  faith.  Conal — and  he  ought 
to  know,  for  there  wasn't  in  his  day  a  man  more 

[233] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

knowledgable  in  fairy-lore — informs  you  that 
there  are  still  enough  fairies  in  the  Emerald  Isle 
to  colonize  the  world.  And  you  are  very  certain 
of  it.  You  are  in  the  faithless  generation,  but, 
thank  Heaven,  not  of  it. 

To  conclude  that  the  fairies  are  dying  like 
Hughie  Haughie — who  thought  he  owned  the 
world's  wisdom  because  he  read  the  Dublin 
Weekly  News — is  too  absurd  entirely  for  anyone 
but  him  who  has  his  head  turned  reading  the 
papers.  The  fairies  can  no  more  die,  even  if  they 
wished  it,  than  can  the  devil  himself — or  the 
angels.  Because,  like  both  of  them,  they  are 
spirits  from  Heaven,  where  they  were  all  fellows 
at  first.  The  time  when  you  were  sixteen  and 
gave  a  day's  shearing  of  corn  to  Eamonn  Mac- 
Daid  of  the  Long  Brae,  you  got  many  a  fascinat- 
ing fairy-tale  from  him  that  carried  you  from  end 
to  end  of  the  corn-hint  without  knowing  that  you 
and  your  hook  had  been  going  at  a  gallop,  and 
that  Eamonn  was  getting  double  day's  work  out 
of  you.  (The  same  Eamonn  was  a  clever  rogue !) 
But  there  wasn't  any  of  all  Eamonn's  stories  half 
so  wonderful  as  that  of  the  way  the  fairies  first 
came. 

When  the  great  battle  was  in  Heaven — when 
Lucifer,  in  his  pride  wanting  to  have  equal  say 
with  God  in  all  things,  arose  in  rebellion  because 

[234] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

God  wouldn't  give  him  his  way,  and  the  Archangel 
Michael  took  up  the  cudgels  for  God — the  angels 
divided  themselves  into  three  parts,  one  wing  of 
them  fighting  with  Lucifer,  and  one  with  Michael, 
and  the  third  remaining  without  prejudice  till 
they'd  see  how  the  war  went,  taking  neither  side 
at  all.  Michael,  behold  you,  when  he  won  out 
and  overcome  Lucifer  and  his  rebels  and  cast  them 
into  Hell,  turned  his  attention  to  them  that  hadn't 
chosen  to  be  either  fish,  flesh,  or  good  red-herring. 
"By  reason  you  didn't  actually  raise  hands  against 
God,"  Michael  announced,  "you  don't  deserve 
Hell  with  the  clan-jaffry  I've  sent  there.  But  be- 
cause you  didn't  do  your  duty  and  stand  for  God 
when  His  will  was  rebelled  against,  neither  should 
you  have  Heaven.  So,"  he  says,  "from  Heaven 
you  must  begone!"  And  they  were  downcast  at 
the  sore  sentence  given  them. 

"And  where  is  it  you'll  exile  us  to?"  says  they. 

"In  pity  for  you,"  says  Michael,  who,  like  all 
Irishmen,  had  a  kindly  spot  in  his  heart,  "I'll  let 
you  make  choice  of  all  places  in  the  world,  outside 
Heaven  and  Hell." 

"Then,"  says  they  with  one  voice,  without  pause 
or  hesitation,  "if  we  must  lose  Heaven,  we  want 
to  go  to  the  delightfullest  place  in  all  the  world, 
and  the  place  that  is  nearest  to  Heaven.  Send  us 
to  Ireland." 

[235] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

'Tis  no  wonder  then  that  you  and  all  your  peo- 
ple are  gentle  and  kindly  with  them  ever.  Sure 
you  couldn't  be  otherwise,  and  be  human — con- 
sidering all  that's  been  lost  to  these  unfortunates. 
And  you  and  all  your  people  never  would,  and 
never  will,  do  anything  to  harm  or  hamper  the 
little  exiles  from  Heaven  who  honoured  Erin's 
Isle  by  choosing  to  abide  in  its  raths  and  on  its 
green  hillsides,  on  its  heathery  moors  and  in  its 
bosky  dells  and  wooded  glens,  which  should  al- 
ways remind  them  of  the  Heavenly  home  they 
long  ago  lost.  You  and  your  people  wouldn't  even 
hurt  their  feelings  by  calling  them  Fairies — a 
name  they  naturally  don't  like — whenever  they  are 
likely  to  be  within  hearing.  "The  Gentle  People," 
you  thoughtfully  call  them. 

And  they  pay  you  back  in  kind.  For  they  are 
gentle  and  genial  with  you.  Only  tricksome  at 
their  worst — for,  when  they  left  Heaven,  they 
didn't  leave  love  of  fun  behind.  And  many's  the 
pardonable  prank  the  creatures  have  played,  and 
many's  the  lightsome  frolic  they  have  had,  at  many 
a  man's  expense  whom  you  yourself  knew.  Robin 
Porter  of  Edrim  Glibe,  you  well  remember  their 
carrying  off  with  them  around  the  world  on  a 
May  evening,  when  you  were  still  a  youngster. 
There  wasn't  any  doubt  about  Robin's  strange  ad- 
venture, because,  as  often  as  there  are  fingers  and 

[236] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

toes  on  you,  you  listened  to  the  story  from  his 
own  lips.  And  Robin  died  less  than  a  dozen  years 
ago. 

Robin  that  evening  was  returning  from  the  Fair 
of  Donegal  with  five  pounds  in  his  pocket,  the 
price  of  a  heifer  he'd  sold.  And  when  he  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  lane,  nigh  to  the  Fairy  Knowe 
that  you  know  well,  just  a  gun-shot  below  his  own 
house  on  the  hillside,  he  was  startled  to  see  the 
size  of  a  funeral  of  little  people  running  hither 
and  thither  in  the  Rowan  Park,  every  one  of  them 
crying  out:  "Fetch  me  a  horse!",  and  getting  it 
as  fast  as  it  was  ordered!  Robin,  saying  to  him- 
self: "Faith,  a  horse  would  be  a  handy  thing  for 
meself,"  shouted :  "Fetch  me  a  horse,  too  1"  And 
the  next  minute  he  was  mounted  on  the  dashingest 
steed  between  here  and  there.  And  when  every 
one  of  his  little  comrades,  putting  on  a  red  cap 
that  hung  on  the  horn  of  the  saddle,  cried  out: 
"I  wisht  I  was  in  Paris!"  Robin,  throwing  off  his 
own  old  caubeen,  clapped  the  red  cap  on  his  head, 
and  cried:  "I  wisht  I  was  in  Paris,  too!"  Whiff! 
and  away  with  himself  through  the  skies  at  a  hun- 
dred mile  a  minute  he  found  himself  flying. 
And  in  less  time  than  it  would  take  you  to  cross 
the  Bridge  of  Brackey,  Robin,  with  his  com- 
panions, found  himself  alighting  in  Paris,  the  most 
dazzlin'  city,  he  said,  he'd  ever  seen  or  heard  tell 

[237] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

of.  They  walked  the  streets  and  viewed  all  its 
beautiful  castles  (for  in  Paris,  of  course,  no  one 
lives  in  anything  less  or  lower  than  a  castle),  and 
marvelled  at  all  its  wonders.  And  when  they'd 
dined  and  wined  to  their  heart's  content  at  a 
castle  that  must  have  been  the  King's — so  grand 
was  it,  with  the  very  mortar  on  the  walls  a  mixture 
of  gold  and  silver — every  man  mounted  his  steed 
and  clapped  on  his  cap  and  cried  out:  "I  wisht 
I  was  in  Jee-cago!"  And  Robin  clapped  on  his 
cap,  too,  and  cried  out:  "I  wisht  I  was  in  Jee- 
cago!"  And,  puff!  and  away  with  them  through 
the  skies,  over  lands  and  over  seas,  till,  behold  you, 
in  less  time  than  I  tell  it,  they  were  planked  on 
the  streets  of  a  city  more  wonderful  far  than 
Paris  was — a  city  whose  houses  went  story  after 
story  all  the  way  to  Heaven  and  with  trains  going 
helter-skelter,  running  and  rattling  in  the  air 
above  your  head  (God  save  us,  and  bless  us!) 
— and  the  President  of  America  himself  and  Con 
MacGuire's  son  of  Meen-a-hurn,  and  several 
others  from  home,  walking  the  streets  plain  to  be 
seen.  And  the  President  gave  Robin  a  hearty 
hand-shake,  and  bade  him  a  good  Irish  Cead  mile 
faille*  to  his  country,  and  chided  him  for  not  com-' 
ing  oftener,  and  asked  him  how  was  Lanty  Mac- 
Cann  getting  on,  who  had  gone  home  five  years 

♦Hundred  thousand  welcomes. 

[  238  ] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

before  with  a  power  of  Yankee  money  and  bought 
a  farm  in  Farramore.  And  he  said  to  tell  Lanty 
America  missed  him.  And  altogether  Robin  was 
mightily  taken  with  the  American  President,  who 
was  as  plain  a  man  and  as  easy  spoken  to  as  Billy 
the  Beggar.  And  when  the  fairies  had  transacted 
the  business  that  took  them  to  Chicago,  and 
Robin  had  seen  enough  of  that  extraordinary  city 
to  make  him  shy  of  America  all  his  life  after,  each 
man  mounted  his  steed  and  clapped  on  his  cap  and 
cried  out:  "I  wisht  I  was  in  Rome !"  And  Robin, 
too,  clapped  on  his  cap  and  said:  "I  wisht  I  was 
in  Rome!"  and  five  minutes  more  found  them 
standing  on  the  streets  of  Rome,  nigh  blinded  by 
the  splendour  of  the  Pope's  palace.  The  sight 
of  it  reminded  Robin  how  he'd  oftentimes  heard 
Father  Peter,  his  loved  old  sagart  at  home,  be- 
wailing that  his  one  comfort  in  the  world,  the 
pipe,  was  denied  him  by  the  bishop's  orders  not 
to  smoke  in  public.  So,  giving  his  horse  to  one 
of  his  comrades  to  hold,  my  brave  Robin  marched 
right  up  and  knocked  on  the  door,  asked  to  see 
His  Holiness,  and  introduced  himself,  requesting 
the  Holy  Father  as  a  favour  to  dispense  Father 
Peter  in  regard  to  the  pipe.  And  the  Pope  re- 
plied: "Well,  my  poor  fellow,  if  you've  travelled 
all  the  way  from  Donegal  to  put  up  this  petition, 
it  would  ill  become  me  to  send  you  back  broken- 

[239] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

hearted  or  empty-handed.  Tell  Father  Peter  from 
me,"  says  he,  "that  from  this  time  out  he  has  my 
permission  to  snap  his  fingers  at  bishops  and  smoke 
when  he  pleases.  For,  more  by  the  same  token," 
says  he,  "  'tis  a  decent  man  is  that  same  Father 
Peter.  And  'tis  many's  the  good  account  I've  heard 
of  him — a  friend  to  the  poor  and  a  father  to  his 
flock,  and  says  the  Prayers  before  Mass  without 
skippin'.  Take  this  pouch  and  this  pipe  to  him," 
says  he,  "they'll  be  his  right  and  title  for  disre- 
garding the  bishop's  orders.  May  the  one  never 
go  out  and  the  other  never  get  empty.  And  my 
blessing  go  with  them,  to  both  him  and  you." 
And,  pocketing  pouch  and  pipe,  a  pleased  man  and 
proud  was  Robin,  as  he  left  the  Pope's  palace. 
His  friends  were  all  waiting  for  him  without,  and 
every  man  now  mounted  his  horse  and  clapped  on 
his  cap  and  cried  out:  "I  wisht  I  was  home  in 
Edrim  Glibe  again!"  And,  piff!  off  through  the 
air  with  them,  steed  and  man  at  the  rate  of  a 
wedding,  and  never  stopped  or  stayed  till  they  were 
in  Edrim  Glibe  again.  And  sure  enough  all  the 
world  knows  that  the  break  o'  day  on  May  morn- 
ing Thomas  Managhan  of  the  Alt  and  Larry 
Friel  of  the  Shore,  getting  home  from  the  wake 
of  Neill  Durneen,  found  Robin  astride  the  cross- 
sticks  which  answer  for  a  gate  at  the  entrance  to 
his  own  lane,  and  just  within  a  hen's  race  of  the 

[240] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

Fairy  Knowe.  Robin's  old  hat,  they  can  sweat, 
was  lying  on  the  ground,  the  same  place  he  had 
cast  it  the  night  before,  when  he  took  the  red  cap 
in  its  stead.  The  cap,  to  be  sure,  had  disappeared. 
And  the  pipe  and  the  pouch,  alas !  he'd  lost  upon 
the  jaunt.  The  fairies,  the  rogues,  had  plainly 
picked  his  pocket  before  they  parted  with  him, 
for  they  very  well  suspected  that  the  Pope  kept 
a  piece  of  good  tobacco,  and  his  judgment  in  pipes 
wasn't  to  be  scorned  neither.  Robin  was  mortal 
sorry  for  Father  Peter's  sake;  and  it's  a  well- 
known  fact  in  proof,  that  till  the  day  of  his  death, 
the  good  man,  wanting  the  tokens  for  defying  the 
bishop's  orders,  was  never  seen  to  smoke  a  pipe  in 
public. 

That  might  have  been  a  prank  they  played  upon 
Robin;  but  a  sadder  deed  was  what  they  did  to 
little  Rosie  Devlin,  whom  they  coveted  for  her 
loveliness.  And  it  is  often  and  often  yourself  and 
many  another  child  of  the  hills  cried  at  hearing 
Rosie's  story  told  the  thousandth  time. 

Rosie  was  just  a  child  of  ten  and  pretty  as  a 
primrose.  Her  people  used  to  send  her  to  the 
hill  every  morning  to  herd  sheep.  Two  or  three 
times  she  came  home,  her  eyes  as  big  as  apples, 
telling  them  of  the  lovely  children  like  herself 
whom  she  had  met  upon  the  hill,  and  played  and 
danced  and  sung  with.     Her  people  only  laughed 

[241  ] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

at  the  foolish  child,  whose  head,  they  said,  was 
full  of  foolish  fancies.  But  one  evening  she  came 
home  crying,  and  told  that  the  lovely  children  who 
played  with  her  now  said  they'd  made  up  their 
minds  to  keep  her  altogether  next  time  she  came 
on  the  hill.  And  her  people  just  said,  angrily: 
"Hold  your  babbling  tongue  and  give  us  no  more 
such  silly  stories."  But  she  cried  when  they  or- 
dered her  to  the  hill  next  morning,  and  clasping  her 
mother,  and  then  her  father,  about  the  knees,  be- 
sought them,  "Oh,  mammy!  Oh,  daddy!  don't 
send  me  to  the  hill  or  I'll  never  see  you  more." 
And  they,  right  angry  with  her  now,  took  a  rod 
and,  scudding  her  little  bare  legs,  drove  her  out. 
Many  people  that  morning  met  Rosie  bitterly  cry- 
ing and  looking  longingly  back  every  few  minutes 
as  she  went  up  the  hill;  but  no  one  ever  met  her 
coming  down.  For  she  never  returned.  Nor  was 
trace  or  track  of  her  found.  But  every  little  boy 
and  girl  among  the  hills  cries  for  her  still. 

But,  barring  harmless  little  jokes  like  that  they 
had  with  Robin,  and  a  rare  coveting  and  carrying 
away  a  lovely  mortal  child  to  make  her  Queen 
among  the  fairies,  the  Gentle  Folk,  you  well  know, 
are  genial  and  kindly  and  have  been  helpful  to 
you  and  yours  and  the  neighbours  a  hundred  thou- 
sand times.  They  have  double  reason,  too,  for 
helping  man.     Not  only  are  they  kind  and  kindly 

[242] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

by  their  angel  nature,  but  they  know  it  is  their 
interest  to  keep  you  on  their  side,  and  encourage 
your  interceding  with  God  for  them.  For  they 
think,  with  you,  that  through  your  prayers  and 
the  prayers  of  all  the  mortal  neighbours,  God's 
heart  will  melt  to  them,  and  on  the  Long  Day, 
when  He  comes  to  judge  the  world,  He'll  maybe 
agree  that  they  have  been  enough  punished  by 
their  long,  long  exile  from  the  glorious  land  that 
was  theirs,  and  take  them  back  with  Him  again 
to  Heaven. 

You  remember  how,  as  you  sat  with  your  bare 
toes  in  the  ashes  of  a  hundred  chimney  corners 
of  the  mountain  side,  you  heard  ten  thousand  times 
old  Father  Phil's  reply  to  the  fairies  on  this  point. 
Of  course,  Father  Phil  lived  far  before  your  day, 
but  the  old  men  and  women  who  told  the  story 
knew  him  well,  and  loved  him  much.  In  thou- 
sands beyond  count,  the  Little  People  once  met 
up  with  him  at  midnight  on  a  lonely  mountain 
road,  one  beautiful,  bright  November  night  when 
the  good  man  was  returning  from  giving  the  last 
rites  to  one  of  the  MacClune's  of  Croaghan,  who, 
at  the  age  of  a  hundred,  had  taken  it  into  his 
head  to  die.  Father  Phil,  on  his  old  gray  mare, 
was  riding  home  along  the  white  mountain  road, 
and  saying  his  Rosary  as  he  rode — for  it  had  been 
a  busy  day  with  him,  between  welcoming  people 

[243  ] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

into  the  world  and  helping  them  out  of  it.  And 
when  he  found  the  old  mare  suddenly  stop  with 
a  jerk,  he  lifted  his  head  and,  lo  and  behold  you ! 
away  before  him  on  the  moonlit  road  as  far  as 
eye  could  carry,  were  thousands  and  thousands  of 
little  people  mounted  on  horseback.  And,  when 
the  old  man  got  his  speeches,  he  asked  them  in 
God's  name  who  they  were  and  what  was 
a-trouble  to  them,  for  he  well  knew  they  weren't 
of  this  earth.  A  spokesman,  stepping  out  from 
the  front  rank,  said:  "Good  Priest,  we  are  the 
Gentle  People,  this  night  gathered  in  our  thou- 
sands of  thousands  from  all  ends  of  Ireland  to 
put  to  you  one  question." 

"And  what  is  the  question?"  asked  Father  Phil. 

"We  want  to  know  from  you,"  said  the  spokes- 
man, "finally,  once  and  for  all,  whether  there  is 
ever  any  hope  of  our  redemption." 

Father  Phil,  when  he  heard  this,  waved  his 
hand,  saying  with  a  tremble  in  his  voice:  "Go 
away,  good  people,  and  do  not  ask  me  any 
question." 

And  that  instant  up  from  all  the  ranks  of  all 
the  thousands  upon  thousands  there  arose  a 
murmurous  "NO !"  that  swept  over  him  and 
shook  him  on  his  horse  like  a  hurricane.  "No!" 
said  the  spokesman  to  him  then.  "We'll  not  go 
away  and  you'll  not  go  away  from  this  spot  till 

[244] 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

you  have  answered  our  question."  Then  the  old 
man  bowed  his  head  in  prayer,  and  prayed  in 
silence  for  a  good  while,  and  there  wasn't  a  stir 
in  that  multitude  nor  a  sound  from  the  moor  bar- 
ring one  pee-weet  that  had  been  put  up  and  was 
circling  above  the  priest's  head,  complaining  lonely 
to  the  night.  And  when  Father  Phil  lifted  his 
head  again,  "Good  people,"  said  he,  "you  have 
asked  me  a  question  and  you  have  insisted 
on  its  being  answered.  Hear  then  my  answer: 
If  in  the  veins  of  all  the  thousands  of  thousands 
of  you  that  I  see  here  to-night,  there  be  as  much 
blood  as  would  sit  on  the  point  of  a  pin,  there  is 
a  chance  for  you." 

And  the  instant  he  said  that,  up  from  all  the 
ranks  of  all  of  them  thousands  there  arose  a  wail 
the  most  heart-rending  he'd  ever  heard  in  his  life, 
and  a  gust  of  wind  swept  past  him,  and  the  road, 
which  an  instant  before  had  been  covered  by  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  little  people,  was  now,  as 
far  as  his  eye  could  see,  white  and  deserted. 

And  the  old  man  who  told  you  this  story  al- 
ways took  care  to  explain  that  as  our  Saviour 
had  died  for  human  beings — for  people  with  blood 
in  their  veins — then  if  in  the  veins  of  all  these 
thousands  there  had  been  the  slightest  trace  of 
blood,  for  them,  too,  had  He  died,  and  for  them 
was  there  chance  of  redemption.     But  they  knew 

[245  1 


THE  GENTLE  PEOPLE 

they  were  spirits  and  bloodless!     May  the  kind 
Lord  forever  pity  them  !    And  amen  !  amen  ! 

Many  was  the  head  that  was  shaken  for  them 
and  many  was  the  heart  melted  in  the  circle  around 
the  fireside  when  the  doleful  tale  was  told.  And 
many  is  the  old  woman  who  that  night  mixed  a 
pitying  prayer  for  them  among  the  trimmings  to 
the  Rosary.  Father  Phil,  though  the  holiest  man 
that  ever  was — none  of  all  of  you  ever  doubted 
that — was  still  human  and  might  have  been  mis- 
taken in  his  verdict.  You  all  hoped  he  was  wrong 
for  once  in  his  life.  Anyway,  God's  mercy  is  be- 
yond bounds  !    Thanks  be  to  Him  ! 


L246J 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

AND  'tis  plain  to  be  seen  that  the  Fairies  were 
hopeful  themselves.  For  they  got  over  the 
fright  Father  Phil's  answer  gave  them.  And 
'twasn't  long  till  they  were  just  as  jokesome  and 
pranksome  as  ever  again.  When  Brian  O'Hart,  the 
merriest  lad  on  the  mountain-side  and  the  pride 
of  the  parish  for  singing,  was  returning  home  from 
Johnny  Ward's  wedding  in  Carrig-a-cleava — in 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  crossing  the  bog 
just  below  his  own  house,  didn't  he  find  himself 
suddenly  surrounded  by  troops  of  the  little  people, 
who  caught  hands  and  danced  and  sang  in  a  ring 
around  him  while  my  brave  Brian  stood  there 
dumbfounded,  like  Tom-fool-in-the-middle.  And 
when  they'd  danced  their  dance  and  laughed 
heartily  at  poor  Brian's  nonplusment,  they  told 
him  the  fame  of  his  singing  had  reached  Fairyland 
and  they'd  come  there  that  night  to  hear  his  best 
song.  "Give  us,"  they  said,  "  'An  cailin  deas 
cruidhte  na  mho.'  (The  Pretty  Girl  milking  her 
cow) ."  And  my  brave  Brian,  in  the  ring  of  fairies, 
in  the  middle  of  the  bog,  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, sang  them  the  rare  old  Irish  song — sang  it  far 
finer  and  sweeter  than  he'd  ever  sung  it  in  his  life 

[247  ] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

before,  and  to  the  most  delighted  audience  he'd 
ever  met  with.  They  loaded  him  with  praises, 
told  him  if  they  could  ever  be  of  use  to  him  to 
command  them,  and,  releasing  him,  sent  Brian 
home  a  happy  man.  It's  often  and  often  you 
heard  Brian  himself — a  gray-haired  man  in  your 
young  days — tell  the  story.  And  again  and  again, 
as  Brian  told  the  story,  at  wedding  or  wake,  you 
heard  many  another  old  man,  sitting  by,  claim  his 
share  of  the  glory  by  corroboration — boasting 
that  he  was  at  Johnny  Ward's  wedding  the  same 
night,  and  saw  Brian  there. 

But  there  was  a  sad  one  among  the  glad  fairies 
— the  banshee.  The  banshee  was  the  saddest  of 
all  the  fairy  clan,  and  the  most  affectionate  like- 
wise. Your  mother's  family,  like  all  the  true  old 
Irish  families,  had  its  faithful  banshee,  the  little 
white  woman  who,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  on 
the  eve  of  a  family  death,  seated  herself  on  the  limb 
of  a  tree  close  by  the  home,  and  there,  combing 
her  long  black  locks,  raised  the  three  heart-rending 
wails  that  ?ent  a  deathly  shiver  to  the  hearts  of 
all  within  hearing,  and  apprised  them  that  death 
was  coming  to  claim  another  toll.  Not  once,  but 
five  times  your  own  mother  had  heard  the  banshee. 
Though  few  they  are  who  ever  saw  the  banshee, 
your  mother  was  privileged  once,  but  only  got  a 
waft  of  her  though,  as  she  flitted   from  a  tree. 

[248] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

She  had  an  eerie  appearance,  like  a  very  little 
hunch-backed  woman  all  in  white,  but  with  a  great 
mass  of  long  black  flowing  locks.  And  many  a 
night  when  you  hurried  home  alone  from  the  story- 
telling at  Padraig  O'Hegarty's,  you  thought  a 
thousand  times  you  caught  a  glimpse,  or  heard 
the  stirring,  of  the  same  little  white  woman  sit- 
ting in  the  sycamore  tree  that  hangs  overhead 
where  the  road  is  doubly  dark  by  the  Bridge  of 
Brackey.  And,  with  your  heart  in  your  mouth, 
you  flew  like  a  swallow  the  rest  of  the  way  home. 
But  it  always  wasn't  the  banshee  after  all — but 
only  a  night  bird  sometimes.  No  matter  for  that. 
That  same  Bridge,  at  night,  seldom  wanted  for 
something  uncanny. 

Yet  you  wouldn't  run  like  that  if  you  met  a 
leprechaun.  Leastways  you  wouldn't  run  like 
that  from  him.  He's  the  luckiest  lad  to  meet  of 
all  the  fairy  tribe.  Because  he's  not  only  the  fairy 
cobbler,  but  their  treasure-keeper  likewise.  It  is 
the  leprechaun  who  knows  where  all  the  crocks 
of  gold  in  Ireland  are.  And  you  know,  in  Ireland, 
there  are  crocks  of  gold  galore — only  unfortu- 
nately they're  all  hidden.  But  you  knew  that,  if 
you  only  came  on  the  leprechaun  unawares  in  the 
gray  twilight,  when  he  was  cobbling  the  fairy 
shoes  under  the  fairy  thorn,  and  took  him  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck  and  kept  your  eyes  firmly  fixed 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

on  him,  there  was  no  way  for  him  to  escape  till 
he'd  confessed  to  you  (which  he  must  always  do 
truly)  where  the  nearest  crock  of  gold  was  hidden. 
To  be  sure,  he,  being  the  trickiest  of  all  the  fairy 
tribe,  puts  his  wits  to  work  to  get  your  eye  off 
him  for  a  fraction  of  an  instant  that  he  may 
vanish — which  the  spell  of  mortal  eye  prevents 
him  doing.  If  you  are  wise  and  wary  and 
won't  be  surprised  into  lifting  your  eye  off  him 
on  any  account,  he'll  have  to  purchase  his  free- 
dom by  truly  telling  the  hiding-place  of  the  crock. 
You  knew  many  a  man  in  the  countryside  who'd 
grown  suddenly  rich,  and  all  the  world  as  well  as 
you  knew  that  it  was  because  he  had  caught  his 
leprechaun.  Owen  a-Kieran  was  long  years  look- 
ing for  his  leprechaun,  however,  before  he  caught 
him.  Owen  had  often  boasted  that  he'd  let  no 
leprechaun  trick  him  as  they  had  tricked  many  a 
man  of  your  acquaintance,  who  thereby  lost  the 
wealth  that  was  within  his  grasp.  Accordingly 
the  clever  Owen,  when  he  at  length  found  his 
leprechaun  cobbling  under  the  fairy  thorn  one 
lovely  Autumn  twilight,  gave  him  to  understand 
in  few  words  that  there  wasn't  any  use  in  all  his 
tricks,  for  Owen's  eagle  eye  would  never  budge 
from  off  him,  till  he'd  shown  where  the  gold  was 
hidden.  So  the  outgeneralled  lad  at  last  had  to 
tell  that  the  crock  was  buried  twenty  feet  beneath 

[250] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

a  tall  bouchaillin-buidhe*  that  grew  by  Owen's 
toe.  The  happy  Owen  could  then  afford  to  let  his 
leprechaun  vanish — which  he  did.  But,  before 
going  home  to  get  his  men  and  picks  and  spades 
and  shovels,  Owen  took  care  to  tie  his  red  hand- 
kerchief on  the  particular  bouchaillin-buidhe  under 
which  his  fortune  lay;  for  on  this  same  hill,  more 
by  token,  there  were  ten  thousand  bouchaillins, 
each  of  them  the  pattern  of  the  other.  And 
Owen — with  good  reason — chuckled  again  for  his 
own  cleverness.  And,  ha !  ha ! — it's  a  thousand 
times  you've  heard  and  laughed  over  it — when 
Owen  with  twenty  neighbours  and  twenty  picks 
and  spades  and  shovels  came  back  on  the  hill  at 
break  o'  day  to  dig  up  the  gold  that  would  make 
him  a  millionaire  forevermore,  lo  and  behold 
you !  wasn't  there  a  red  handkerchief  tied  on  every 
bouchaillin-buidhe  on  all  the  hill ! 

And  till  the  day  of  his  death  Owen  a-Kieran 
couldn't  hear  the  word  leprechaun  mentioned  with- 
out flying  into  a  passion.    No  wonder ! 

It  was  no  leprechaun  Denis  Gastha  met — but 
a  lad  more  serious.  On  one  Hallow  Eve 
Denis  and  his  son  Nealis  were  fishing  off 
Loughross.  They  not  only  wanted  a  little  luxury 
for  supper  on  that  feast,  but  hoped  also  to 
earn  a   few  shillings.     With  the  long  lines  they 

*Ben\veed. 

[251] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

were  fishing;  and  the  "take"  was  pretty  good. 
But  suddenly,  though  the  sky  had  been  clear  and 
settled  and  the  sea  likewise,  a  mist  began  to  roll 
out  from  the  land,  and  the  sea  got  troubled  as  the 
mist  came  over  it.  Very  soon  the  mist  had  envel- 
oped the  boat,  which  now  began  to  rock  and  toss 
in  a  way  that  terrified  Nealis  greatly.  Down  in 
the  bottom  of  the  boat  he  got  on  his  hands  and 
knees,  and  prayed  silently  and  fervently. 

Denis  Gastha  was  both  troubled  and  puzzled 
by  the  strange  happening.  He  remembered  then 
how  on  the  evening  before,  when  he  was  return- 
ing home — in  a  bad  enough  temper,  for  he  had 
caught  only  three  flukes,  which  he  carried  with 
him  on  a  withy — a  strange  young  man,  very  small, 
whom  he  met  on  the  road,  asked  to  have  one  of  the 
fish,  and  he  had  given  the  queer  stranger  a  surly 
answer,  and  passed  on.  Recalling  this,  Denis  now 
asked  Nealis  if  he  had  the  clasp-knife  with  him. 

"Yes,"  Nealis  said,  "I  have." 

"Then  take  it  out  and  open  it,"  said  Denis 
Gastha.     Nealis  did  so. 

"Now,"  Denis  said,  "you're  young  and  strong, 
stand  up  and  face  the  mist,  and  with  all  the  veins 
of  your  heart  throw  the  knife,  point  foremost, 
into  it."  Nealis  stood  up,  and,  taking  strong  foot- 
ing in  the  boat  and  gathering  all   his   strength, 

[252] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

plunged  the  knife  into  the  mist.  A  great  shriek 
that  made  Nealis's  heart  tremble  came  back. 

"Thank  God!  It's  well,"  Denis  Gastha  said, 
and,  in  a  few  minutes,  there  was  no  more  any  mist, 
and  the  sea  settled  down  as  calm  as  it  had  been. 

Early  on  the  next  morning,  that  is  Hallow  Day, 
which  is  the  day  of  the  great  Fair  of  Ardara, 
Thady  Brennan  of  Altcor  was  on  his  way  to  the 
Fair,  when,  at  the  Garran  Ban,  he  overtook  a  small 
young  man,  who  was  lamenting  to  himself. 

"God  save  you,  young  stranger,"  Thady  said, 
"and  what  is  it  is  troublin'  you?" 

The  young  man  didn't  say:  "God  save  your- 
self" in  return,  but  he  looked  at  Thady  sorrow- 
fully, and  then  raised  his  right  hand,  through  the 
centre  of  which  a  big  clasp-knife  was  stuck,  and 
said:  "Will  you  pull  out  that  clasp-knife  from 
me?" 

"Oh,  God  protect  you,  my  poor  young 
stranger,"  Thady  said,  "I  will  that."  And  there 
and  then  he  drew  it  out.  And  Thady  was  aston- 
ished to  find  that  no  blood  flowed  from  the  wound. 

"Now,"  the  young  man  said,  "I  am  forever 
grateful  to  you.  May  you  always  prosper,  and 
everything  ever  you  put  your  hand  to.  I  ask  your 
pardon  for  doing  this,"  and  he  rubbed  his  hand 
over  Thady's  eyes  and  then  disappeared.  When 
Thady  looked  around  and  could  not  see  him,  he 

[253] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

went  away  in  wonder,  and  was  concluding  with 
himself  that  he  had  met  a  fairy. 

But  lo,  ere  Thady  had  got  near  Ardara,  he 
began  to  see  the  Little  People  in  drifts  and  droves, 
and  singly  and  in  pairs,  some  riding  and  some  walk- 
ing, some  driving  cattle  and  some  without,  com- 
ing down  off  the  hills  and  the  moors,  and  com- 
ing by  cassies,  lanes,  and  by-ways,  on  to  the  main 
road,  and  flocking  to  the  fair  likewise.  They 
were  all  dressed  out  very  neatly  and  cleanly.  The 
men  had  pure  white  shirt-fronts  and  black  ties  tied 
with  flowing  bow-knots,  and  wore  shining  black 
clothes  of  the  best  home-made,  and  their  boots, 
too,  shone  so  that  they  might  see  themselves  in 
them.  Of  the  women,  some  rode  on  pillions  be- 
hind their  men  (with  an  arm  clasped  round  the 
men's  waist  to  steady  them  in  their  seats),  and 
some  of  them  walked;  and  all  of  them  were  more 
handsomely  dressed  than  the  men.  They  had  many 
ribbons,  of  the  colours  of  the  rainbow,  plaited  in 
the  long  plaits  of  hair  that  fell  down  their  backs  to 
the  waist  and  below  it,  and  they  had  many  more 
ribbons  decorating  different  parts  of  their  dress, 
which  was  made  of  fine  wool,  and  looked  as  rich 
as  silk. 

All  were  very  light-hearted,  as  people  will  be, 
going  to  a  fair:  they  chatted,  and  bantered,  and 
laughed  right  heartily,  so  that  Thady  could  hear 

[254] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

the  musical  ring  of  it  floating  away  up  the  valleys. 
Those  that  were  on  horseback  smiled  and  kissed 
back  their  hands  to  those  whom  they  passed  walk- 
ing; and  those  that  walked  laughed  up  to  them, 
and  tripped  dancingly  as  if  it  was  merrier  to  walk 
than  to  ride.  The  cows  and  stircs  they  drove  were 
very  small,  and  very  sleek  and  nice,  and  they  went 
at  a  slinging  pace,  snapping  a  bite  of  sweet  green 
grass  now  and  again,  tossing  their  heads,  and 
whisking  their  tails  with  pleasure,  as  if  they,  too, 
highly  enjoyed  going  to  a  fair.  Thady  also  saw 
several  little  fairy-women  taking  to  the  fair  the 
drollest-looking  little  pigs  mortal  ever  set  eyes  on 
— very  knowing-looking  little  fellows,  smaller  far 
than  bonniveens  (sucking  pigs).  The  women  had 
a  string  tied  to  the  pig's  hind  leg,  by  which  they 
kept  it  under  control — or,  rather,  tried  to — for, 
more  tricky  little  pigs  Thady  never  saw.  They 
pretended  to  mistake  for  the  right  road  every 
way  they  knew  surely  was  the  wrong;  and  they 
showed  a  lot  of  stubborn  persistence  and  squealed 
frightfully  when  the  women  tugged  at  the  strings 
with  all  their  force  to  coax  them  to  come  right 
again.  This  made  much  merriment  for  all  who 
went  untroubled  with  pigs  themselves;  and  the 
fun  was  furious,  if  the  pig,  convinced  by  force  that 
it  took  the  wrong  way  and  coming  back  on  the 
road,   coolly  started   towards  home  again — and, 

[  2.55  ] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

with  much  struggle  and  noise,  debated  the  point 
with  its  driver — sometimes  getting  itself  and  its 
driver  and  the  rope  all  mixed  up,  and,  when  extri- 
cated, dashing  away  with  all  its  speed  and  drag- 
ging after  it  an  unwilling  mistress,  who,  however 
badly  she  felt  her  ridiculous  position,  found  it  bet- 
ter to  put  the  best  face  on  matters,  and  pretend  to 
enjoy  the  joke  herself. 

Thady  came  to  the  fair,  and  in  the  market-place 
saw  ten  times  more  Little  People  than  Christians. 
They  were  buying  and  selling,  haggling,  and 
"splitting  the  differ,"  just  like  mortals;  and  some 
of  them  going  about  in  pairs,  with  sticks  under 
their  arms,  looking  with  cunning  eyes  at  various 
stock,  drawing  their  sticks  and  hitting  a  beast  here 
and  there  to  put  it  for  view  in  a  new  position, 
pricing  it  and  walking  on  if  not  satisfied  to  bargain 
for  it.  He  saw  beasts  bought  and  prices  counted 
out  in  small  golden  pieces  about  the  size  of  fish- 
scales;  and  the  seller  generally  spat  on  the  last 
golden  piece  and  gave  it  back  as  luck' s-penny ;  and 
all  adjourned  to  a  tent,  where  they  drank  to  the 
health  and  success  of  buyer  and  seller,  and  of  the 
beast. 

Thady,  hearing  much  and  loud  laughter  coming 
from  the  pig-market,  hurried  there  to  find  what 
was  the  cause.  He  found  that  one  particularly 
perverse  little  pig,  which  had  created  much  amuse- 

[256] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

ment  coming  to  the  fair,  was  at  its  tricks  again. 
She  was  a  fat  wee  woman  who  owned  it;  and  she 
was  now  sweating,  and  very  red  in  the  face;  for 
the  pig  (which  had  a  very  knowing  eye,  Thady 
noted,  and  seemed  to  see  more  behind  than  be- 
fore) wished  to  go  in  any  and  every  direction 
now  its  mistress  wanted  it  to  stand  still.  It  jumped 
clean  over  another  pig's  rope,  and  then  squealed 
enough  for  five  pigs  because  one  hind  leg  didn't 
get  over,  but  was  caught  and  strained;  and  when 
its  mistress  relieved  it,  it  tried  to  dive  through 
the  wheel  of  a  fairy  cart  in  which  fairy  bonniveens 
were  for  sale,  where  it  got  its  head  jammed,  and 
began  to  squeal  enough  for  eleven  pigs.  Then  it 
dashed  pell-mell  through  a  lot  of  boxes  of 
brooches  and  fairlies  that  were  exposed  for  sale, 
and  the  owner  of  these,  very  angry,  hastened  to 
slap  it  sharply  with  her  open  hand  drawn  with  all 
her  might;  whereupon  its  vexed  mistress,  unde- 
servedly enough,  took  the  pig's  part,  and  scolded 
the  fairin  woman,  who,  on  her  part,  scolded  back 
with  interest.  And  it  was  only  the  pig's  going 
off  on  a  new  path  of  destruction,  and  dragging  its 
panting  owner  with  it,  that  averted  active 
hostilities. 

Half  the  fair  of  the  Little  People  were  gathered 
around  in  hearty  enjoyment  of  the  funny  scene, 
for  what  heightened  the  amusement  was  that,  not 

[257] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

only  was  the  owner  of  the  pig  in  a  hot,  bad 
temper,  but  all  who  had  pigs  or  carts,  or  any  sort 
of  goods,  in  her  neighbourhood,  were  out  of 
temper  likewise,  over  the  annoyance  given  them 
by  her  and  her  perverse  pig.  So  they  scolded 
loudly,  and  beat  the  pig  smartly — making  it  still 
more  cantankerous.  And  the  owner  of  the  pig 
scolded  back  as  best  she  could  for  the  running, 
the  tugging,  and  the  panting,  and  the  choking 
wrath  the  wicked  animal  was  causing  her.  And 
when  at  length  the  pig  ran  between  the  feet  of 
a  scolding  woman  who  guarded  an  apple-stand, 
and  twisted  around,  and  caught  the  woman's  leg 
in  the  rope,  while  the  woman,  not  waiting  to  free 
herself,  struck  out  at  the  pig's  owner,  who  struck 
back,  and  both  fell  to  the  boxing,  the  pig,  him- 
self, squealing  and  screaming,  ran  round  and  round 
till  he  had  fairly  entangled  the  two  combatants 
in  the  rope;  and  both  of  them  fell  over  against 
the  apple-stand,  which  went  down  along  with 
them,  scattering  the  apples  in  every  direction, 
while  the  pig,  standing  on  top  of  the  mixed  heap 
of  mortals  and  apples  and  apple-stand,  screamed 
at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Such  of  the  crowd  as 
were  not  entirely  overcome  with  the  laughter  began 
jostling  for  the  fruit,  till,  in  another  minute,  a 
heap  of  the  bystanders,  mixed  heels  and  heads,  were 
thrown  on  top  of  all,  and  nothing  was  distinguish- 
es] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

able  but  the  fearful  squealing  of  the  pig  from 
under  the  ludicrous  heap ! 

Thady  Brennan,  he  could  hold  in  no  longer, 
but  burst  into  a  great,  loud  and  hearty  fit  of 
laughter.  Instantly,  all  the  Little  People,  silenced, 
turned  upon  Thady  surprised  and  wrathful  looks. 
On  the  moment  there  came  up  the  same  young  man 
out  of  whose  hand  Thady  had  drawn  the  knife 
that  morning:  and  to  him  Thady  nodded  fa- 
miliarly and  spoke.  The  wrathful  looks  of  the 
gathering  were  instantly  turned  from  Thady  to 
the  young  man.  "Is  it  you  ?"  they  said,  "who  have 
done  this?" 

A  real  mortal  pig  running  at  this  moment  across 
Thady  tripped  him  up  with  its  rope.  He  capsized, 
and  a  little  old  gray  fellow  of  the  fairies,  running 
up,  rubbed  his  hand  across  Thady's  eyes,  and  lo ! 
all  the  Little  People  and  their  pigs  and  their  cattle 
and  apples  and  apple-stands,  and  everything  be- 
longing to  them,  instantly  vanished — and  Thady 
Brennan  lost  his  gift  forever! 

But  everything  that  Thady  put  his  hand  to 
afterwards  prospered,  in  accordance  with  the 
fairy's  blessing.    As  it  should. 

No  matter  for  the  fairies'  tricks,  the  Gentle 
People  love  all  Irish  folk — and  Ireland  herself 
likewise.  Oftentimes,  when  footing  it  all  the  way 
over    the    hill    of    Mullinashee    when    you    were 

[259] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

going  to  the  bog  on  a  May  day,  you  thought  upon 
the  cave  beneath  your  feet  under  the  green  hill- 
side, where  the  fairies  hold  in  fairy  sleep  Red 
Hugh,  the  dauntless  warrier  who  warred  so  long 
for  Ireland's  rights — hold  him  and  his  thousand 
followers,  lying  each  man  with  his  hand  on  his 
sword  by  the  side  of  his  steed,  waiting  for  the  hour 
when  Erin  calls  them  to  ride  boldly  forth  and  lead 
the  van  in  the  glorious  final  fight  for  Ireland's 
freedom.  And  you  often  thought  with  a  thrill 
of  that  strange  happening  nearly  a  hundred  years 
ago  now  when  a  Bally-ma-Cahill  man,  riding  home 
from  the  Fair  of  Donegal,  had  his  horse  purchased 
from  him  by  a  tall,  soldierly-looking,  dark  man, 
who  asked  him  to  lead  the  animal  into  a  cave  on 
the  side  of  the  hill  of  Mullinashee.  And  far 
within,  they  reached  the  great  gates  of  a  beautiful 
castle;  and  in  the  court-yard  were  a  thousand  men 
stretched  by  the  side  of  a  thousand  steeds,  both 
men  and  horses  slumbering.  And  when  the  Bally- 
ma-Cahill  man  accidentally  struck  a  great  gong 
with  his  toe,  every  sleeper  of  the  thousand  was 
on  one  knee  in  an  instant,  one  hand  on  his  sword 
and  the  other  on  his  horse's  mane,  and  a  man 
asked:  "Is  the  time  come?"  The  tall  stranger, 
waving  his  hand  to  them,  answered:  "Not  yet. 
Sleep  on !"  And  every  soldier  of  them  dropped 
in  sleep  by  the  side  of  his  steed  again,  while  the 

[260] 


GENTLE— AND  SOMETHING  BESIDES 

Bally-ma-Cahill  man  was  quickly  conveyed  from 
the  cave,  the  entrance  to  which  he  or  any  other 
mortal  never  could  find  after,  and  never  knew  be- 
fore. For  the  fairies  (Heaven  bless  them!)  keep 
these  men  guarded  and  concealed,  till  comes  THE 
TIME!     God  hasten  it! 

And  when  THE  TIME  has  come,  and  Ireland 
has  won  her  long,  long  fight,  she'll  ten  times  more 
fondly  cherish  the  Gentle  People  who  helped  her 
in  her  hour  of  need,  and  hold  them  ten  thousand 
times  nearer  and  dearer.  And  meantime  you  and 
all  belonging  to  you  will  never  cease  to  pray,  as 
you  have  been  praying,  that  a  kind  God  will  look 
kindly  on  the  Gentle  Outcasts  and  bring  them  to 
their  own  again. 


[261] 


WHEN  THE  TINKERS  CAME 

THIS  is  how  they  came.  After  you  had  your 
hay  harvested,  and  your  potatoes  stored, 
and  your  turf  home,  and  Long  Michael  of  the 
Moor  bid  to  the  thrashin'  of  the  corn,  you  were 
sitting  by  your  roarin'  hearth-fire  of  a  night,  smok- 
ing the  pipe  of  content,  and  hearkening  to  the  first 
wail  of  the  winter's  wind;  little  Patsy,  Johneen  Og 
and  Una,  stretched  on  the  floor,  were  striving 
(both  mentally  and  physically)  with  their  lesson- 
books  by  the  fire-light ;  and  Herself  was  setting 
in  a  neat  row  upon  the  white  dresser  the  bowls 
from  which  the  household  had  been  supping  stir- 
about (food  for  princes!),  and  you  were  feeling 
at  peace  with  yourself  and  the  whole  world,  when 
there  came  a  rattle  on  the  latch  and  the  door 
opened,  and  a  head,  under  an  ill-conditioned  cau- 
bin,  was  shoved  in,  hailing:  "God's  blessin'  on  all 
here!"  drawing  from  yourself  and  Herself  the 
prompt  response,  "On  yourself,  stranger,  likewise. 
Won't  ye  step  in?" 

"Thank  ye,  thank  ye,  good  woman;  and  thank 
you,  good  man.  I  just  put  in  my  head  for  to  know 
if  you  had  any  objection  to  a  lock  of  us  shelterin' 
here  the  night?    I  have  a  couple  of  asses  without, 

[262] 


WHEN   THE  TINKERS   CAME 

and  I  have  the  woman  herself  an'  a  grain  o' 
childer.  We're  travellin'  people,  ma'am,"  adroitly 
appealing  to  woman's  sympathy. 

"Och,  surely,  God  help  you  creatures,  ye  can," 
Molly  herself  said.  And  you  took  your  pipe  from 
your  mouth,  and  said  likewise. 

"Certainly,  certainly.  Turn  the  asses  into  the 
field  beyont,  and  come  in  here  yourselves.  There's 
little  room;  but  what  there  is,  you're  hearty  wel- 
come to." 

For,  of  course,  wanderer  was  never  yet  turned 
from  your  door.  The  houseless  and  homeless  and 
the  penniless  poor  had  always  the  warm  word  and 
the  welcome  smile  by  your  hearth. 

This  time,  however,  you  knew  not  what  you  had 
brought  on  yourself,  till  it  was  too  late.  In  three 
shakes  of  a  lamb's  lug  your  kitchen  was  crammed 
with  myriads  of  tinkers,  great  and  small,  while  a 
multitude  of  asses  were  turned  into  your  choice 
field  of  after-grass,  that  you  had  been  stingily  sav- 
ing up  to  coax  milk  from  the  mooly  cow  round  the 
winter.  You  were  forced  far  from  the  heat  of 
your  own  hearth;  your  amazed  children  swept  to 
the  wall-side,  and  Molly  driven  for  refuge  to  the 
room;  while  the  tinkers — there  were  many  families 
of  them,  and  yet  they  all  seemed  one  family! — 
made  their  own  of  your  kitchen,  and  its  accommo- 
dations, its  seats,  its  mugs,  its  bowls,  its  plates  and 

[263] 


WHEN    THE   TINKERS    CAME 

knives  and  spoons,  and  brought  in,  too,  burden 
after  burden  of  your  turf,  piling  them  stack-high 
on  your  hearth,  till  in  dread  alarm  you  most  hum- 
bly begged  them  not  to  burn  your  house  down — 
and  in  response  got  kindly  and  gracious  re-assur- 
ance. In  your  pans  they  boiled  their  tea — boiled 
it! — upon  the  roaring  fire,  and  served  it  round  in 
all  the  vessels  that  they  could  commandeer,  from 
Una's  milking-noggin  to  Molly's  four  fancy  tea- 
cups, which  she  prized  as  the  apple  of  her  eye,  and 
which  she  used  only  twice  a  year  (when  Father 
Michael  came  round  upon  Stations),  but  which 
half  a  score  of  embryo  tinkers  now  fished  out  from 
their  secret  place,  and  then  fought  for,  till  you 
trembled  for  their  fate — the  fate  of  the  cups,  I 
mean — whilst  to  your  own  three  awe-stricken  chil- 
dren very  little  drops  of  tea  were  tendered  in  very 
large  porringers. 

Night  was  turned  into  day,  and  the  gabble  of 
voices,  rarely  less  than  thirteen  speaking  at  one 
time,  ceased  not  till  a  welcome  winter  sun  dawned 
in  the  morning.  You  had  comparative  quiet  then, 
you  thanked  Heaven.  For  several  hours  the  gab- 
ble died  down.  The  tinkers  only  lay  and  sat 
drowsing  around  the  fire,  and  occasionally  drop- 
ing  into  it,  preventing  you  getting  to  your  own 
hearth  to  cook  your  breakfast,  except  by  exceeding 
effort  and  skilful  piloting,  and  plentiful  apologizing 

[264] 


WHEN    THE   TINKERS    CAME 

— which  apologies  they,  waking  up,  always  gra- 
ciously accepted,  assuring  you  it  was  all  right,  hitch- 
ing their  seats  into  yet  more  inconvenient  positions, 
drooping  their  heads,  and  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the 
just  again. 

After  noon  their  new  day  began,  and  they  were 
very  much  alive  once  more.  The  women,  in  haste 
for  a  weapon  to  whack  recalcitrant  children, 
snatched  down  your  picture  of  Saint  Patrick  driv- 
ing out  the  serpents,  and  with  it  effectively  re-en- 
acted the  amazing  miracle.  To  encourage  the  dila- 
tory kettle  they  took  Molly's  valued  pot-stick  which 
Conal  the  Carpenter  had  made  her  as  a  favour, 
broke  it  over  their  knee,  and  stuck  it  in  the  fire; 
whilst  the  children  played  leap-frog  from  your 
kitchen  into  the  one  grand  room  on  which  Molly 
had  expended  untold  thought  and  trouble,  and  (at 
the  lowest  calculation)  seventeen  shillings  and  six 
pence  in  hard  cash ;  and  the  men  wrent  out  to  look 
at  the  asses,  and  drive  them  into  a  better  field  if 
you  had  such.  That  day,  too,  they  made  a  tour 
of  inspection  of  the  neighbours'  houses,  and  bil- 
leted their  legion  in  such  residences  as  wrere  ap- 
proved of — taking  care,  however,  to  do  particular 
honour  to  your  hospitable  self,  by  making  your 
house  their  headquarters  and  bestowing  on  you 
double  the  number  allotted  to  the  next  most-fa- 

[265] 


WHEN   THE   TINKERS    CAME 

voured  one — so  that  you  were  left  no  excuse  for 
jealousy. 

In  a  few  days'  time  your  roof-tree  was  ringing 
to  the  music  of  tinkers'  honest  toil;  and  they  whis- 
tled and  sang  light-heartedly,  as  in  the  very  middle 
of  your  floor,  where  they  could  cause  most  obstruc- 
tion, they  industriously  tinkered  all  day.  When 
you  barked  your  shins  upon  their  tins,  or  smashed 
your  toe  against  their  soldering  iron,  or  tripped 
and  fell  and  broke  your  bones  over  their  out- 
stretched legs,  they  gave  you  no  ill-word  for  your 
stupidity,  but  instead  assured  you,  with  the  gen- 
erosity of  the  great-hearted,  that  it  was  all  right 
and  no  harm  done.  They  gave  you  the  impression 
that  they  earnestly  desired  you  to  make  yourself 
completely  at  home  in  the  house,  and  not  stand 
upon  forms  with  them.  Yet  you  began  painfully 
to  realize  that  you  were  an  impertinent  intruder  in 
this  house;  and,  whenever  you  got  in  their  way — 
and  sure  you  were  for  ever  blundering  into  their 
way, — you  were  abjectly  grateful  that  the  forbear- 
ing fellows  refrained  from  flinging  things  at  your 
head. 

They  were  fiddlers,  of  course — fiddlers  and 
fifers  and  pipers.  Music  and  tinkering  were  sister 
graces  with  them  always,  and  there  wasn't  any  of 
their  men  who  couldn't  play  upon  some  instrument, 
complex  or  simple.    They  were  charming  singers, 

[266] 


WHEN    THE   TINKERS    CAME 

too,  and  enchanting  whistlers.  The  fame  of  your 
house  under  control  of  its  new  masters  spread  fast 
and  far.  The  boys  and  girls  of  the  barony  began 
gathering  to  you  every  night.  Very  soon,  the  tink- 
ers, who  were  ever  princely,  announced  that  they 
would  entertain  the  countryside  to  a  grand  dance. 
And  the  countryside  was  duly  grateful  to  them  for 
placing  your  kitchen  at  its  service.  And  on  the 
eve  of  the  dance,  under  kind  direction  of  the  tin- 
kers, you,  with  much  groaning  both  of  body  and 
spirit,  bore  out  of  doors  everything  portable  in 
your  home  that  was  not  an  absolute  necessity  in  a 
dance-house.  And  the  countryside  came  in  its  num- 
bers and  its  Sunday  clothes,  cramming  and  jam- 
ming your  house  from  hearth-stone  to  threshold, 
dancing  and  enjoying  itself  to  the  tinkers'  piping 
till  morning,  leaving  silver  and  thanks  to  the  gen- 
erous fellows  who  had  given  it  this  most  enjoy- 
able treat  and  had  promised  it  another  soon,  and 
bidding  a  perfunctory  good  morning  to  yourself, 
who  felt  like  an  interloper  graciously  tolerated  in 
the  house  of  mirth. 

It  was  a  merry  and  a  lively  winter  indeed,  all 
that  winter  in  which  you  and  your  wife  and  three 
little  children  lodged  in  your  own  house  by  the 
grace  of  the  tinkers — a  very  lively,  pleasant  win- 
ter, truly!  You  didn't  enjoy  it,  of  course — you 
somehow  never  do  enjoy   the   good  things   God 

[267] 


WHEN    THE   TINKERS    CAME 

sends  you — for  you  had  a  load  of  some  kind  over 
your  heart,  and  Herself,  strange  to  say,  looked 
care-worn;  and  your  children  somehow  or  other 
got  a  frightened  appearance  which  it  took  them  five 
years  to  wear  oft  again ;  and  one  of  you  seldom  saw 
your  own  fire.  Your  best  grass-fields  were  bare  as 
a  table  ere  winter  was  half  through;  and  your  hay- 
stack fell  a  victim  to  galloping  consumption.  But 
still  it  was  a  merry  and  a  lively  winter.  There's 
no  denying  that — everyone  said  so. 

When  winter's  back  was  broken,  and  the  longed- 
for  Patrickmas  sun  danced  in  of  your  door,  the 
tinkers  stretched  themselves  and  considered  it  was 
time  to  be  jogging  a  bit.  You  did  your  best  of 
course  to  persuade  them  that  it  was  only  young 
in  the  year  yet,  and  they  shouldn't  be  in  a  hurry. 
These  great-minded  fellows  smiled  at  your  sim- 
plicity— or  selfishness.  They  had  wasted  a  whole 
winter  upon  you,  and  now  that  the  sun  of  spring 
had  come,  it  was  little  enough  to  ask  that  you 
should  learn  to  lean  on  yourself.  So  you  had  to 
thank  them  profusely,  and  wring  their  hands 
warmly  and  long  as  you  wished  them  good-bye, 
earnestly  begging  to  know  when  they  would  come 
again.  They  couldn't  satisfy  you  on  this,  but  to 
your  consternation  promised  that,  whenever  they 
should   return   to  the  neighbourhood,  you  might 

[268] 


WHEN    THE   TINKERS    CAME 

rest  assured  no  slight  would  be  put  upon  your 
house. 

Then  they  were  gone — I  rather  mean  going. 
For  it  took  some  time  from  the  starting  of  the 
head  of  the  caravan,  till,  having  unfolded  itself  to 
its  tedious  extent,  the  tail  was  in  motion.  You, 
when  the  procession  had  disappeared,  turned  into 
your  house,  very  thoughtfully  smoking  your  pipe. 
Molly  had  gone  in  before  you.  Ye  sat  down 
one  on  each  side  of  the  hearth,  and  both  of  ye 
looking  into  the  fire;  but  neither  of  ye  said  any- 
thing.    Ye  were  too  full  for  utterance. 

When  in  the  early  afternoon  of  that  bright  day 
— it  was  a  very  bright  day,  one  of  the  brightest 
you  ever  remember — people,  passing,  observed  the 
tinkers  camping  in  the  shade  of  a  high  hedge  five 
miles  farther  on,  the  women  boiling  tea,  and  the 
men  beating  out  tins,  they  said:  "The  tinkers  have 
left  Long  Johneen's — the  more's  the  pity!" 

But  both  of  ye  said,  down  in  your  hearts: 
"Thanks  be  to  God  for  all  His  mercies !" 


[269  ] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

THEY  were  the  old,  old  tales  that  had  come 
down  to  you  ripened  and  sweetened,  like 
your  pipe,  with  the  ages — barring  that  the  years 
of  the  tales  were  as  the  days  of  the  pipe.  And 
men  and  women  were  like  little  children  listening, 
even  for  the  thousandth  time,  to  the  same  tale; 
and  could  go  without  food  or  drink  for  fondness 
of  hearing  you  tell  them. 

And  you  told  them — sometimes  going  to  Mass 
or  Market,  when  the  neighbours  needed  the  weary 
miles  cut;  or  at  the  wake-house,  when  the  night 
was  long  and  the  company  wanted  cheering;  but, 
more  often  and  better,  seated  in  your  own  corner, 
by  the  big  blazing  turf  fire,  pulling  your  pipe,  and 
watching  the  queer  shadows  of  the  spellbound 
ones,  like  listening  ghosts,  leaping  on  the  walls 
and  bobbing  over  the  brown  rafters.  And  all 
the  more  magical  was  it  when  the  soft  stillness 
without  told  you  that  the  snow-weaver,  shooting 
his  silent  shuttle,  wove  its  mantle  of  white  peace 
for  the  slumbering  world — or  when  you  felt  the 
winds,  like  Pookas  from  the  hills,  leaping  upon 
the  little  cabin,  making  the  rafters  groan  and  the 

[270] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

foundation  rock,  and  your  audience  shiver  with  the 
bliss  of  shelter  and  security. 

And  your  tales  were  all  beautiful — whether  they 
chanted  the  noble  deeds  of  the  immortal  Fionn, 
the  fascinating  adventures  of  Mac  Ri  na  nEireann 
(the  King  of  Ireland's  son)  detailed  the  irresistible 
rogueries  of  the  matchless  vagabond  Jack,  or  fol- 
lowed the  fortunes  of  the  poor  Widow  Woman's 
Three  Sons — or  even  when  they  exalted  country 
wisdom — tickling  the  fancy,  and  flattering  the  in- 
nocent vanity,  and  calling  down  the  loud- 
murmured  encomiums  of  the  delighted  circle,  just 
as  in 

The  Will  of  the  Wise  Man 

The  time  that  the  Wise  Man  lived  was  far 
longer  ago  than  I  could  tell  you,  and  twice  longer 
ago  than  you  could  tell  me.  It  was  a  time  when 
wise  men  were  as  common  as  wattle  sticks  in  Ire- 
land, and  a  man  couldn't  wind  his  elbow  without 
striking  one.  When  wise  men  were  so  plentiful 
he  must  have  been  an  extraordinary  one  entirely 
who  would  be  called  "The  Wise,"  as  was  an  old 
Prince  by  the  name  of  Phelim,  who  had  for  his 
possession  the  wooded  lands  of  Ardloe,  and  whose 
name  and  fame  were  mighty  indeed,  and  went  to 
the  ends  of  the  then  known  world.  He  was  named 
The  Wise  during  his  lifetime;  and  has  been  known 

[271  ] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

as  such  ever  since,  barrin'  for  one  twelve  months 
during  which  people  called  him  Phelim  the  Fool — 
the  reason  for  which  makes  my  story. 

And  'twas  this  was  the  way  of  it. 

Phelim  had  four  sons,  Conal  and  Donal,  and 
Manis  and  Phelimy  Og  (or  young  Phelim). 
The  three  eldest,  Conal  and  Donal  and  Manis, 
were  harum-scarum  lads — gamesters  and  wastrels 
who  never  knew  God's  grace,  and  were  of  no  ac- 
count to  king  or  country.  They  hunted,  sported 
and  spent,  and  the  world  gave  in  it  was  their  mis- 
doings that  brought  their  poor  old  father's  gray 
hairs  in  shame  to  the  grave  before  God's  good 
time. 

The  fourth  and  youngest  son,  Phelimy  Og,  was, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  model  of  what  a  brave 
boy  and  a  good  son  ought  to  be,  but  possessed  what 
was  better — a  good  heart  and  God's  grace.  And 
he  was  the  stay  and  comfort  of  the  old  man. 

That  is  what  made  the  Wiseman's  Will,  when 
he  died,  so  strange  and  such  a  puzzle  to  the  peo- 
ple, who  concluded  that,  after  all,  the  old  say- 
ing was  a  true  one:  "You  ought  to  call  no  man 
a  wise  man  till  the  worms  have  done  with  him." 

Many's  the  man  minded  this  old  saw,  and 
wagged  his  head  over  it  when,  Phelim  being  dead 
and  slipped  under  the  sod,  his  will  was  opened  and 
read. 

[272  ] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

For  this  was  the  wonderful  way  that  the  Wise 
Man's  will  went: 

"To  my  eldest  son,  Conal,  I  bequeath  and  be- 
stow all  that's  green  and  all  that  isn't  green  on 
the  wooded  lands  of  Ardloe.  To  my  second  son, 
Donal,  I  bequeath  and  bestow  all  that's  crooked 
and  all  that's  straight  on  the  wooded  lands  of 
Ardloe.  To  my  third  son,  Manis,  I  bequeath  and 
bestow  all  that  moves  and  all  that  stands  still  on 
the  wooded  lands  of  Ardloe.  And  to  my  young- 
est son,  Phelimy  Og,  I  bequeath  and  bestow  the 
remainder." 

The  world,  when  it  heard  the  will  read,  was 
dumbfounded,  and  said  that  the  dead  man  must 
surely  have  taken  leave  of  his  senses  before  he 
wrote  anything  so  silly.  It  was  bad  enough  for 
him,  people  thought,  to  leave  all  of  his  property 
to  each  one  of  the  three  sons  at  the  same  time; 
but  when,  after  willing  away  all  he  owned  three 
times  over,  to  say  he  bequeathed  to  Phelimy  Og 
what  remained  was  a  sorry  joke  and  a  cruel  one 
to  crack  at  the  expense  of  the  poor  boy  who  was 
his  only  credit,  and  who  loved  and  cared  him,  and 
so  bravely  stuck  to  him  through  thick  and  thin. 
It  passed  all  comprehending,  they  said.  And  they 
got  so  mad  with  the  man  who  was  dead  that  to 
make  up  for  the  favour  they  had  shown  him  in 
life,  when  they  miscalled  him   Phelim  the  Wise, 

[273] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

they  then  and  there  christened  him  Phelim  the 
Fool. 

Now,  the  wooded  lands  of  Ardloe  were  the 
finest  game  preserve  in  Ireland;  and,  on  that  ac- 
count, drew  the  sports  and  gamesters  from  Ire- 
land's ends  to  hunt  and  shoot  there.  And  it  was 
why  the  dead  man,  Phelim,  had  come  to  call  these 
woods  a  curse  to  him  instead  of  a  blessin',  since 
the  gamesters  and  sports  that  they  gathered,  and 
the  game  that  they  offered,  were  the  very  means 
of  spoilin'  and  makin'  good-for-nothin'  his  three 
eldest  boys.  And  it  was  often  he  prayed  God 
that  a  hare  or  a  deer  might  never  shake  a  foot, 
nor  a  wood-cock  call,  within  their  bounds  again — 
prayers  that  were,  to  be  sure,  sadly  in  vain;  for 
so  long  as  the  birds  and  the  animals  got  here  the 
widest  range  and  closest  cover  to  be  found  in  Ire- 
land, they  thronged  them  and  bred  like  beetles. 

'Twas  only  a  few  months  ere  the  old  man  died 
that  he  discovered  the  lands  of  Ardloe  were  be- 
coming of  rare  value,  gold  being  discovered  in 
them,  and  the  engineers  pronouncing  that  it  only 
wanted  the  clearing  away  of  the  woods  which 
crowded  every  foot  of  them  for  miners  to  get  to 
work,  and  make  them  the  richest  resource  that  Ire- 
land ever  knew. 

Well  and  good.  Phelim,  the  Fool,  as  we  may 
now  call  him,   wasn't  cold  in  his  clay  when  the 

[274] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

wastrels  that  he  left  behind  him,  Conal  and  Donal 
and  Manis,  were  at  one  another's  throats,  fightin' 
like  devils  for  a  property  whose  every  foot  was 
now  a  fortune — the  Wooded  Lands  of  Ardloe — 
which  each  of  them  claimed  had  been  willed  to 
him  and  him  alone. 

Phelimy  Og,  poor  fellow,  as  he  conceived  he 
had  no  claim  whatsomever  in  the  matter,  left  the 
three  good-for-nothings  to  settle  the  dispute 
among  themselves;  and  went  to  the  King,  who 
had  been  a  good  friend  of  his  father's,  to  apply 
for  a  job  by  which  he  could  feed  and  clothe  him- 
self an'  live  in  modest  decency.  And  the  King, 
takin'  pity  on  him,  gave  him  the  post  of  under- 
groom  in  his  stables,  to  which  Phelimy  went  grate- 
ful and  thankful,  not  worryin'  the  world  with 
any  complaint  he  had  against  it,  but  prepared  to 
spend,  from  that  day  forward,  a  hard-working,  in- 
dustrious life. 

Conal  and  Donal  and  Manis,  when  they  had 
long  enough  disputed  with  small  signs  of  their 
agreein',  came  at  last  into  the  city  of  Armagh, 
where  the  King  had  his  palace,  and  put  their  case 
before  him,  and  asked  him  to  decide  what  was 
just  between  them.  But,  when  he  read  the  will, 
he  was  a  sore,  nonplussed  man.  He  shook  his  head 
and  told  them  to  go  further,  for  that  it  flabber- 
gasted him  out-an'-out,  though  he  was  a  King. 

[275] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

"And  what  are  we  to  do?"  they  asked. 

"If  you's  don't  divide  into  three  equal  parts, 
an'  share  an'  share  alike,"  says  the  King,  says  he, 
"the  Wooded  Lands  of  Ardloe,  I  don't  know  what 
else  you  can  do." 

"I'll  not  share  an'  share  alike  with  anyone  in 
a  property  as  you  see  set  down  in  black  and  white 
has  been  willed  to  me,  entire,"  says  Conal. 

"I'll  not  share  an'  share  alike  with  man  or  mor- 
tal in  a  property  that  has  been  entirely  willed  to 
me — as  a  blind  man  may  see  for  himself,"  says 
Donal. 

"An'  I'm  very  sure,"  says  Manis,  says  he,  "that 
I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  share  an'  share  alike  with 
soul  or  sinner  in  the  Wooded  Lands  of  Ardloe 
that  have  by  that  written  parchment  been  put  into 
my  whole,  sole,  an'  complete  possession.  It's  in 
a  lunatic  asylum  an'  not  at  large  I  ought  to  be," 
says  he,  "if  I  turned  such  a  trick." 

"Well!  well!"  says  the  King,  says  he,  "there's 
nothin'  for  it  but  to  take  your  case  afore  the  judges. 
As  they're  wiser  than  all  other  men  in  these  mat- 
ters, an'  accustomed  to  clearin'  up  contrairy  wills, 
if  there's  any  readin'  of  the  riddle,  they'll  read  it." 

Now,  the  King,  he  sent  out  messengers  to  the 
first  and  greatest  judges  in  his  dominions,  sum- 
moning them  to  come  into  Armagh  immediately, 
and  sit  upon  an  extraordinary  case  which  had  come 

[276] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

up  for  decision.  An'  in  short  time  the  judges  were 
crowdin'  into  the  city,  walkin',  runnin',  and  ridin'. 
An'  the  King,  himself,  went  down  to  the  Courts 
when  they  sat,  an'  all  the  people  of  the  city  of 
Armagh  that  could  find  standin'  room  crowded 
the  Courts,  also;  for  all  of  them  had  learnt  of 
the  comical  will  of  Phelim  the  Fool,  and  came  in 
wonderment  to  watch  what  the  judges  would  make 
out  of  it.  An'  Conal  an'  Donal  an'  Manis  were 
there,  every  one  of  them,  to  state  his  case — 
with  dozens  of  witnesses  and  councillors  by  the 
score,  ready  to  prove  that  black  was  white,  and 
white  was  gogram  gray — or  anything  else  that  was 
needful.  And  on  the  case  the  great  an'  noble 
judges  of  the  Kingdom  of  Armagh,  with  the 
great,  wise  High  Chief  Judge  himself  over  them 
all,  sat  for  seven  days,  an'  seven  nights,  hearin' 
an'  deliberatin'  an'  argufyin',  sleepin'  in  relays 
where  they  sat,  and  takin'  their  meals  from  their 
fists  without  quittin'  the  Bench.  An'  the  excite- 
ment in  the  Court  an'  in  the  city  of  Armagh,  an' 
over  all  the  country,  for  miles  an'  miles  around, 
was  tremendous,  an'  grew  greater  an'  greater  as 
the  case  proceeded,  till  at  last  the  people  threat- 
ened to  mutiny,  an'  rebel,  an'  rise  out,  an'  kill 
an'  slaughter  all  before  them,  if  the  Judges  of  the 
High  Court  with  the  High  Chief  Justice  of  them 
all,  over  them,  didn't  soon  come  to  a  decision,  an' 

[277] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

a  proper  one,  an'  one  that  would  satisfy  every- 
body. An'  the  very  King  himself  got  mightily 
afraid. 

But,  lo  and  behold  ye !  at  the  end  of  the  seven 
days  and  seven  nights,  when  everything  that  could 
be  said  in  the  case,  an'  that  couldn't  be  said  in  it, 
everything  that  bore  on  it,  an'  everything  that 
didn't  bear  on  it,  was  heard  an'  proven,  the  dis- 
tracted judges  asked  for  an  hour's  peace  to  con- 
sider their  final  decision,  which  was  granted  to 
them.  An'  the  people  waited  without  drawin' 
their  breaths  to  hear  what  would  come  of  it.  But, 
behold  ye,  before  the  half  of  an  hour  was  up,  the 
officer  who  was  at  the  door  of  the  room  where  the 
judges  had  retired  had  to  send  for  the  sojers,  to 
rid  the  judges  out  of  one  another!  An'  no  two 
of  them  could  be  allowed  to  lodge  in  the  same 
street  that  night. 

The  people  got  into  a  terrible  way  entirely.  An' 
it  took  all  that  the  King  and  his  councillors  could 
do  to  soothe  them,  an'  keep  them  from  breakin' 
out  an'  slayin'  all  comin'  their  way.  Many  of 
them  didn't  go  to  bed  at  all,  at  all,  an'  couldn't 
sleep  if  they  did  go  to  bed.  But  they  marched 
the  streets  up  an'  down,  cursin'  the  law  an'  the 
lawyers,  an'  singin'  rebellious  songs,  an'  kickin'  up 
the  frightfullest  hullabaloo  that  had  been  heard  in 
the  city  of  Armagh  since  the  day  it  was  christened. 

[278] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

Towards  break  o'  day,  they  gathered  in  the 
market  square,  an'  to  mark  their  aggravation  at 
the  judges,  agreed  that  the  first  man  to  enter  the 
city  gates  in  the  morning,  though  he  might  be  a 
lunatic,  or  a  travelling  tinker,  should  be  made 
High  Chief  Judge  over  the  city,  an'  the  King- 
dom of  Armagh,  for  a  year  an'  a  day.  An'  they'd 
put  him  in  the  High  Judge's  robes,  an'  set  him  in 
the  High  Judge's  place,  an'  bring  all  their  cases 
before  him. 

The  King,  who  was  sorely  piqued  against  the 
judges  himself,  right  heartily  gave  his  consent, 
which  mollified  them  one  and  all,  and  restored  or- 
der, an'  gave  the  soldiers  control  of  the  eity  again 
before  day  dawned. 

At  break  o'  day  they  were  one  an'  all  assembled 
at  the  city  gate,  watchin'  for  the  first  wayfarer 
who'd  be  lucky  enough  to  come  along — or  un- 
lucky. An'  the  sun  had  only  begun  to  get  his 
shoulder  over  the  hill  when,  in  the  far  distance 
along  the  white  road,  they  saw  a  speck  comin'  an' 
gettin'  larger  an'  larger,  till,  at  length,  they  made 
a  man  out  o'  it.  The  excitement  grew  great  as  he 
came  nearer,  they  waitin'  an'  watchin'  an'  tryin' 
to  make  out  his  appearance  an'  features,  an'  to 
guess  what  he  was  at  all,  at  all.  An'  when  he  had, 
at  length,  come  so  close  that  they  could  make  out 
a  little  dark  countryman,   dressed  in  homespuns, 

[279] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

an'  with  his  belongin's  done  up  in  a  red  handker- 
chief hangin'  from  the  stick  over  his  shoulder, 
they  put  up  such  a  cheer  an'  laugh  as  made  the 
gates  rattle,  an'  brought  the  little  dark  country- 
man to  a  standstill,  wondering  what  was  the  joke 
in  the  city. 

And  when  he  reached  the  gates  they  questioned 
him  who  he  was,  and  what,  and  where  he  was  trav- 
ellin'  to. 

He  answered  them  that  he  was  only  a  poor  man 
from  Donegal,  his  name  was  Patrick,  and,  by  rea- 
son of  his  very  black  head  and  beard  and  dark 
features,  he  went  among  his  neighbours  by  the 
name  of  Dark  Patrick;  an'  he  was  pushin'  to 
Armagh,  he  said,  to  see  the  King,  regarding  a 
little  bit  of  bog  that  he  had  always  depended  upon 
for  his  winter's  fire,  and  which  a  rich  and  greedy 
grabber,  to  whom  the  whole  bog  was  of  small  ac- 
count, wanted  to  deprive  him  of. 

"Well,"  says  they,  "though  you've  come  to  beg 
for  a  bit  of  bog,  the  King's  been  waitin'  for  you 
to  put  you  in  the  place  of  his  High  Chief  Judge, 
dress  you  in  silk  and  satin  robes,  and  let  you  sit 
for  a  year  an'  a  day  in  his  High  Court,  dispensin' 
justice  between  man  an'  man." 

Dark  Patrick  replied  to  them  that  he  was  weary 
and  worn  after  his  long  tramp  from  Donegal,  an' 
not  in  spirits  for  jokin',  an'  that,  moreover,  the 

[280] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

citizens  of  the  King's  own  city  should  be  more 
honourable  and  hospitable  than  to  poke  fun  at 
the  poor  and  the  stranger.  "Let  me  get  on,"  he 
said,  "to  see  the  King,  an'  start  for  home  again; 
for  I'm  a  simple  countryman,  not  used  to  city 
ways.  It's  seldom  I  ever  lose  sight  of  my  own 
chimney,  an',  when  I  do,  I'm  ill  at  ease  till  I  see 
it  again." 

They  laughed  hearty  at  this,  an'  said  he  was  the 
man  of  all  men  they  were  lookin'  for.  An'  a 
couple  of  big  fellows  of  them  hoisted  Dark  Pat- 
rick on  their  shoulders  an'  started  off,  with  a  tre- 
mendous crowd  roarin'  an'  cheerin'  behind,  an' 
two  men  in  front,  carrying  a  banner  on  which  was 
written  in  large  letters,  "Welcome,  welcome,  to 
our  new  Chief  Judge!"  The  King  ordered  him 
to  be  lodged  in  the  Head  Inns  of  the  town,  an' 
treated  to  the  best,  an'  restored  after  his  long 
journey,  an'  then  put  upon  the  Bench  to  fill  the 
space  that  all  the  other  judges,  now  in  disgrace, 
showed  themselves  unfit  to  fill.  "This  poor  man 
from  the  mountain,"  the  King  said,  "mayn't  be 
much  of  a  lawyer,  nor  have  half  a  head,  nor  aver- 
age wisdom  about  him,  but  I'll  guarantee  he's  no 
worse  than  the  dunderheads  that  have  disgraced 
the  Bench."  An'  they  were  one  an'  all  that  hour 
dismissed  from  his  service. 

Patrick  was  whisked  off  then,  an'  showed  into 

[281] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

the  Head  Inns,  an'  the  King's  orders  given  to 
the  landlord  how  he  was  to  treat  him  as  if  he  was 
a  gentleman.  An'  on  the  very  next  mornin'  the 
crowd — who'd  now  got  into  good  humour  again 
— came  early  to  carry  the  countryman  back  to  the 
Courts,  an'  have  their  fun  with  him.  There 
wasn't  a  bit  o'  use  in  Patrick's  protestin'.  They 
hoisted  him  on  their  shoulders,  an'  away  with  a 
mighty  multitude  cheerin'  behind. 

The  King  had  come  down  to  the  Courts  himself 
to  enjoy  the  fun,  also.  An'  he  had  a  front  seat 
on  the  gallery,  an',  when  Patrick  was  put  upon 
the  Bench,  an'  the  Court  was  jammed,  crammed, 
an'  rammed  with  every  soul  that  it  could  hold  with- 
out bursting,  the  Court  Crier  called  out  and  asked 
if  there  was  anyone  had  any  case  to  bring  for- 
ward, an'  put  before  their  new  High  Chief  Judge. 
An'  it  struck  the  King  that  it  would  be  a  grand 
joke  for  to  put  before  the  poor  mountain  man  the 
will  of  Phelim  the  Fool,  an'  asking  him  to  decide 
upon  it. 

So,  he  spoke  out,  an'  asked  why  shouldn't  the 
will  case  that  the  disgraced  judges  had  failed  to 
settle  be  put  before  their  new  High  Chief  Judge, 
to  find  what  would  be  his  verdict?  The  crowd 
cried  with  delight  at  the  grand  idea,  an'  shouted 
out:  "The  Will  Case!  The  Will  Case!  Bring 
Phelim  the  Fool's  Will  Case  before  him  !" 

[282] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

Now,  the  little  dark  man  upon  the  Bench  had 
been  fidgettin'  and  feelin'  bad.  But  when  Phelim 
the  Fool's  will  was  produced,  an'  the  chief  lawyer 
in  the  Court  below  began  to  read  it  to  him,  it 
was  noticed,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  got  interested,  and 
soon  leant  over  very  attentive.  And  as  the  lawyer 
went  on  with  the  readin',  Patrick  shoved  off  him 
the  ridiculous  robes  they  had  put  him  into,  an' 
sat  so  sedately,  an'  listened  with  such  intelligence, 
that  the  crowd  in  the  Court,  an'  even  the  King 
himself,  stopped  their  laughin'  an'  their  jokin', 
an'  began  to  get  interested  themselves,  watchin' 
the  face  of  the  simple  countryman  who  sat  on  the 
Bench  in  homespuns.  An'  when  the  will  was  done 
readin',  there  was  silence  in  the  Court,  everyone 
holding  his  breath  to  hear  what  Dark  Patrick 
would  say. 

An'  he  asked:  "Are  the  contestants  of  this  will 
here?" 

"They  are,"  says  the  people,  an'  they  pushed 
forward  Conal  and  Donal  and  Manis.  Everyone 
of  them  stated  his  case  solemn  and  brave,  an'  par- 
ticularly pointed  out  how  ten  times  more  valuable 
the  property  now  was  by  reason  of  the  gold  mines 
discovered  under  it;  and  proved,  each  to  his  own 
satisfaction,  that  the  Wooded  Lands  of  Ardloe 
belonged  to  him,  an'  him  alone.  An'  the  little  man 
upon  the  Bench  was  watchin'  everyone  of  them 

[283] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

very  sharply  entirely,  as  they  gave  their  evidence 
— never  sayin'  one  word  or  askin'  one  question,  but 
lettin'  them  ramble  on  till  they  were  finished.  And 
the  people  were  wondering  mightily  at  Patrick's 
self-possession — as  was  also  the  King. 

"My  three  good  boys,"  says  Dark  Patrick,  says 
he,  when  the  three  brothers  had  finished  their 
statement,  "I  should  like  to  ask  ye  one  question?" 

"Surely,"  says  they,  politely,  for  in  spite  of 
themselves,  like  every  other  body  in  the  Court, 
they  had  got  a  mighty  respect  for  the  little  dark 
mountainman  sittin'  on  the  Bench.  "Surely,"  says 
they,  "a  hundred  if  you  like." 

"Thank  you,"  says  the  little  man  on  the  Bench; 
"one  will  be  sufficient  for  me.  Tell  me,"  says  he, 
"how  have  you  three  fine,  brave,  able-lookin'  boys 
been  leadin'  your  lives,  an'  supportin'  yourselves, 
an'  helpin'  your  father  since  you  came  to  years  of 
sense  and  discretion?" 

The  three  lads,  a  good  deal  staggered,  hemmed 
an'  hawed,  an'  said  a  good  deal  without  sayin' 
anythin';  till  the  little  man,  when  he  was  tired 
listening  to  their  mumbling,  spoke  out,  an'  asked 
if  any  dependable  person  in  the  Court  would  come 
forward  an'  answer  for  him  the  question  that  these 
lads  seemed  so  tedious  about  replyin'  to.  The 
King  himself,  no  less,  got  on  his  legs,  and  told 
Patrick  the  truth  of  the  matter,  an'  the  sort  of 

[284] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

gamesters,  an'  hunters,  an'  spendthrifts  these  lads 
had  ever  been,  an'  that  it  was  the  world's  wonder 
why  their  poor  father,  whose  heart  they  had 
broken,  ever  willed  them  anything.  But  since  he 
did  will  it  so,  law  was  law,  an'  not  people's  likin'. 
So  the  silly  will  must  be  administered. 

"Humph!"  says  Patrick,  says  he,  that  way.  "I 
see.  Tell  me,"  says  he,  "where's  the  fourth  party 
named  in  this  will?  Phelimy  Og,  if  I  don't  mis- 
take the  name." 

"Oh,"  says  the  King,  says  he,  "he  is  earnin' 
his  day's  wage  as  under-groom  in  my  stables. 
Don't  bother  about  him,  since  his  father  be- 
queathed him  nothing.  Decide  the  case,"  says  he, 
"if  you  can,  as  between  these  three  men  that  have 
claims  on  it;  for  it's  too  much  time  an'  temper  has 
been  wasted  over  it  already." 

"That's  very  good,"  says  Dark  Patrick,  says 
he,  "but  I'm  a  peculiar  kind  of  a  man,  an'  when 
I  take  a  notion  I  like  to  be  humoured  in  it.  I'm 
anxious  to  hear  the  character  of  this  Phelimy  Og — 
what  sort  of  a  son  he  was,  and  how  he  spent  his 
time." 

"Oh,"  says  the  King,  says  he,  "so  far  as  that 
goes,  the  poor  fellow  was  all  right."  An'  he 
went  on  to  tell  about  the  good  son  Phelimy  was, 
an'  to  lament  that  his  unnatural  father  left  to  him 
nothin'  but  a  joke. 

[285] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

"Will  you  please  send  for  Phelimy  Og,  then, 
till  he,  too,  hears  my  verdict,"  says  Dark  Patrick, 
says  he.  The  King  was  getting  impatient,  but 
someone  advised  him  it  was  better  to  humour  the 
little  man  on  the  Bench,  anyway. 

So,  Phelimy  Og  was  sent  for,  an'  came  into 
Court  breathless,  gettin'  his  arms  into  his  coat  as 
he  came  an'  runnin'  his  fingers  through  his  hair 
to  look  decent — for  Phelimy  was  working  like  a 
nigger  at  his  new  job.  Dark  Patrick  ordered  him 
to  stand  up  at  the  bar  on  a  line  with  his  three 
brothers.  An'  Phelimy,  not  knowin'  what  was  to 
happen,  did  as  he  was  bid.  An'  the  three  brothers, 
dressed  an'  done  up  in  the  smartest  and  finest,  with 
their  hair  shining,  cast  scornful  glances  down  at 
Phelimy,  who  was  too  much  ashamed  an'  too  bash- 
ful to  look  up  at  them,  but  cast  his  eyes  on  the 
ground. 

There  was  a  terrible  silence  entirely  in  the  Court 
now,  an'  every  man  was  listening  to  his  own  heart 
beatin'.  An'  the  King,  himself,  was  the  most  eager 
an'  anxious  man  there,  was  the  King's  own 
self,  as  he  leant  so  far  forward  out  of  the  seat 
on  which  he  sat  that  a  couple  of  people  neighbour- 
ing him  put  out  their  hands  to  keep  him  from  fall- 
ing over. 

Dark  Patrick  sat  back  in  his  seat  on  the  Bench, 
an'  lookin'  an'  speakin'  as  collected  as  if  he  was 

[286] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

sittin'  among  the  neighbours  by  his  own  fireside, 
begun  to  give  his  verdict. 

He  said:  "Your  Majesty  an'  good  people  all, 
I  have  read  this  will  made  by  him  that  you  have 
nicknamed  Phelim  the  Fool,  an'  that  I  call  Phelim 
the  Very  Wise.  I  have  read  this  will,  an'  heard 
this  case,  which  is  as  plain  as  the  meadows  o' 
Meath,  and  have  come  to  the  decision  that  no  man 
can  dispute." 

"What  is  it?"  says  the  King,  terribly  eager. 

"That's  what  I'm  comin'  to,  your  Majesty," 
says  Dark  Patrick,  very  coolly  but  very  respect- 
fully. And  the  King  looked  small  for  a  minute. 
"My  decision,"  says  Dark  Patrick,  "is  that  the 
Wooded  Lands  of  Ardloe  have  been  most  de- 
servedly willed  into  the  whole,  sole,  and  complete 
possession  of  you,  Phelimy  Og." 

Everyone  in  the  Court  started — from  the  King 
down  to  Phelimy  Og  himself. 

"It's  a  lie!"  says  a  hundred  angry  voices,  all  at 
once.     "It's  a  lie  !    Throw  him  down  !" 

Says  Dark  Patrick,  without  moving  an  eyelid: 
"Since  I've  been  appointed  High  Chief  Judge  by 
the  King  settin'  there,  I,  in  my  capacity  as  High 
Chief  Judge,  will  take  insult  from  no  man — 
crowned  or  uncrowned,"  he  added.  "I'll  order 
the  soldiers  here  to  put  under  arrest  the  first  man 

[  287  1 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

guilty  of  contempt  of  Court,  and  I  defy  dis- 
obedience." 

Even  the  King,  he  bowed  his  head  to  this.  Un- 
less he  scouted  and  flouted  his  own  laws,  he  had 
to  acknowledge  that  the  little  dark  mountainman 
on  the  Bench  had  the  upper  hand  even  of  himself. 

"On  your  peril,  keep  quiet,"  says  the  King,  says 
he,  to  all  his  subjects  in  the  Court. 

Dark  Patrick,  no  way  affected,  took  up  his 
speech  again. 

"To  you,  Phelimy  Og,"  says  he,  nodding  his 
head  at  Phelimy,  "is  willed,  as  I  said,  all  the  lands 
of  Ardloe.  Now,  Conal,  this  document  here  says 
that  to  you  belongs  all  that  is  green  and  all  that 
is  not  green  on  the  Wooded  Lands  of  Ardloe. 
Very  good.  And  to  you,  Donal,  this  document 
wills  all  that  is  crooked,  and  all  that  is  straight, 
on  the  Wooded  Lands  of  Ardloe.  Very  good 
again.  And  to  you,  Manis,  I  here  see  willed  all 
that  moves,  and  all  that  stands  still,  on  the 
Wooded  Lands  of  Ardloe.  That  is  to  say,  every 
blade  of  grass,  and  every  stick  of  timber,  and 
every  fin  of  fish,  and  every  feather  of  bird,  and 
every  foot  of  animal  on  the  Wooded  Lands  of 
Ardloe  is  the  property  of  you,  Conal,  Donal  and 
Manis — and  for  them  everyone  of  you  is  by  law 
individually  responsible.  Since  your  poor  father 
died,  the  three  of  you  have  been  trespassers,  and 

[288] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

lawbreakers,  in  leaving  your  grass  and  your  trees 
growing,  your  fish  swimming,  your  birds  flying, 
and  animals  running  on  the  Wooded  Lands  of 
Ardloe,  the  property  of  your  youngest  brother, 
Phelimy  Og,  to  whom  is  here  willed  all  your 
father's  possessions,  barring  the  living  and  grow- 
ing things  thereon." 

There  was  a  great  silence  entirely  in  the  Court. 

Says  Dark  Patrick:  "As  the  Woods  of  Ardloe, 
with  all  the  sporting  they  supplied,  have  been  so 
long  the  ruination  of  the  three  of  you,  your  more 
than  wise  father  decided  that  they  would  be  your 
ruination  no  longer.  But  wisely  willed  that  you 
shall  profit  by  being  yourselves  the  instruments 
for  their  destruction.  Every  hour,  henceforth,  that 
you  allow  one  of  your  sticks  to  stand,  or  one  of 
your  hares  to  run,  upon  Ardloe,  you  are  liable  to, 
and  must  receive,  imprisonment,  for  being  delib- 
erate and  malicious  trespassers.  He  has  wisely 
willed,  too,  that  you  shall  have  healthful  work  to 
do  in  clearing  these  lands,  and  opportunity  to  re- 
flect upon  your  useless  lives,  and  that  you'll  serve 
the  good  brother  and  the  faithful  son  whom  you 
dispossessed — clearing  the  way  for  his  prospectors 
and  miners  to  get  to  work  and  unearth  his  wealth. 
Go,"  he  said;  "on  your  peril,  lose  no  single  day 
till  you  have  begun  this  useful  work,   that  the 

[289] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

will  and  the  law  now  commits  you  to.    What's  the 
next  case?"  says  Dark  Patrick. 

But  the  furore  that  instantly  got  up  in  that 
Courthouse,  and  the  deafening  cheer  after  cheer 
that  was  raised,  forbade  anyone  thinking  of  any 
other  case.  The  King  himself  got  up  in  his  box 
and  led  the  cheer,  and  cheered  louder  than  any 
man  there.  And  as  soon  as  things  calmed  down, 
which  wasn't  for  a  long  time,  and  during  all  of 
which  Dark  Patrick  sat  patiently  and  quietly  and 
humbly,  the  King  spoke  out  in  the  presence  of  all, 
an'  he  said  to  Dark  Patrick:  "I  here  now  name 
you  as  my  High  Chief  Judge,  not  for  a  year  and 
a  day,  but  for  all  the  years  ever  you  live,  and 
may  they  be  many.  Moreover,  I  here  and  now, 
in  the  presence  of  all  witnesses,  offer  you  any  three 
requests  you  choose.     Name  them." 

"Your  Majesty,"  says  Dark  Patrick,  getting  to 
his  feet,  and  leaning  upon  the  Bench,  and  speak- 
ing very  respectfully,  "your  Majesty,"  says  he, 
"is  very,  very  kind,  indeed,  to  a  poor  ignorant  man 
from  the  hills  of  Donegal,  and  I  feel  accordingly 
grateful.  As  you  have  made  me  such  a  handsome 
offer  in  asking  me  to  name  any  three  requests  I 
choose,  I  shall  take  you  at  your  word.  My  first 
request,"  says  he,  "is  that  you  will  here  and  now 
relieve  me  of  an  office  that  I'm  not  fitted  for,  and 
that  has  been  put  upon  me  without  my  consent. 

[290] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

My  second,  that  you  will  instil  into  your  people 
that  it  is  unmanly  and  unworthy  to  make  fun  at 
the  expense  of  the  poor  and  the  stranger  coming 
within  your  gates.  And  the  third  is  that  for  which 
I  travelled  to  see  you  all  the  way  from  Donegal — 
namely,  that  you'll  put  me  in  the  possession  of  a 
little  patch  of  bog  from  which  I  every  year  cut 
my  winter's  fire,  and  which  a  rich  man  now  covets, 
and  strives  to  grab  from  me.  If  you  grant  me 
these  three  requests — and  I  know  you  will,  for  an 
houourable  King  like  you  never  breaks  his  word — 
I'll  be  grateful  to  you  while  I  live." 

Both  the  King  and  the  crowd  were  consternated 
when  they  heard  the  three  requests,  and  the  peo- 
ple called  upon  the  King  to  break  his  word.  But 
Dark  Patrick  only  shook  his  head,  no  matter  what 
remonstrances  were  made,  and  the  King  saw  that 
he  was  concerned,  an'  that  there  was  no  way  of 
getting  out  of  it,  and  that  he  must  grant  the  three 
requests.  Which  he  did.  And  Dark  Patrick,  re- 
spectfully refusing  all  offers  of  wealth  and  costly 
presents  that  the  King  and  people  wanted  to 
shower  upon  him,  said  to  them  that  these  things, 
while  they  were  of  value  to  the  generous  givers, 
were  of  no  value  whatsoever  to  him,  who  lived 
plainly  and  humbly  in  a  little  cabin  upon  a  patch 
of  land  where  he  always  got  enough  to  eat  and 
sufficient  to  clothe  him,  and  was  now,  too,  always 

[291  ] 


THE  TALES  YOU  TOLD 

assured  of  plenty  of  fire  to  keep  him  warm  be- 
tween summer  and  summer. 

"And  I  have  there,"  he  said,  "peace,  content, 
and  love  of  my  neighbours.  These,  with  a  hill- 
side of  my  own,  health,  and  a  spade,  make  me  the 
wealthiest  man  in  the  world.  Good-bye!  God's 
blessin'  be  with  you  all,  always!" 

And,  tying  his  bundle  upon  his  staff,  the  little 
dark  countryman,  in  his  homespuns,  passed  out  of 
their  gates,  and  headed  him  along  the  white  road 
that  pointed  for  the  mountains  of  Donegal. 


[292] 


WHEN  GOD  SENT  SUNDAY 

YOU  always  felt  there  could  be  no  scene  more 
cheering,  inspiring,  and  impressive  than  that 
of  Sunday  morning  among  the  mountains,  when 
the  neighbours — bouchal,  cailin,  man,  woman,  and 
child — in  their  cleanest,  in  their  brightest  and  best, 
wound  down  the  green  hillsides  and  over  the  brown 
moors,  and  streamed  along  the  white  country 
roads  to  Mass.  It  was  surely  a  refreshing  sight, 
and  a  joyous  one.  The  sun  was  in  these  people's 
hearts,  and  in  their  souls,  as  well  as  on  their  faces. 
The  girls  wore  their  brightest  ribbons,  the  women 
their  bluest  cloaks,  the  boys  and  men  their  fresh- 
est frieze,  or  richest  broadcloth.  Neighbour 
stepped  out  with  neighbour,  and  friend  with 
friend,  couples  gravitating  to  groups,  and  groups 
dissolving  again  in  constituent  couples  as  you  went, 
the  hearts  of  all  going  lightly  as  your  feet. 
Though  the  distance,  for  many  of  you,  was  long 
miles,  and  the  road — if  you  had  a  road  at  all — 
rough,  you  never  knew  it.  Your  journey  was  all 
too  short  for  the  many,  many  absorbing  topics  that 
must  be  discussed. 

When   you   reached   the   chapel-yard,    the   first 
thought  of  every  one  of  you  was  to  pray  a  Pater- 

[293] 


WHEN  GOD  SENT  SUNDAY 

and-Ave,  kneeling  by  the  graveside  of  a  dear  one 
departed.  After  which,  since  it  was  not  yet  Mass- 
time,  you  mingled  with  the  many  already  there 
assembled,  met  friends  from  the  farthest  end  of 
the  parish,  whom  you  had  not  seen  for  seven  days 
or  fourteen,  swapped  the  news  of  your  respective 
districts,  learnt  the  state  of  the  markets,  the  do- 
ings of  Parliament,  the  latest  pronouncements  of 
the  politicians,  discussed  wars  and  rumours  of 
wars,  criticised  Prime  Ministers  and  Poor  Law 
Guardians,  and  foretold  the  fate  of  Kings  and 
cattle-dealers. 

Father  Dan  (the  Heavens  be  his  bed,  this 
day!)  had  thoughtful  consideration  for  his  flock. 
Knowing  that,  owing  to  the  long  parish  distances, 
some  of  you  must  be  late,  he  granted  a  generous 
margin  beyond  the  announced  time  for  beginning 
Mass — oftentimes,  after  every  one  else  had  ar- 
rived, sending  his  boy,  Barney,  up  to  the  head 
of  the  risin'  ground  "to  see  if  he  could  see  any 
sign  of  Eamonn  Og"  (usually  the  last  man  in  at- 
tendance), and,  if  so,  to  make  him  lift  his  legs 
and  not  keep  Mass  waiting. 

Indeed,  on  one  Sunday  morning,  as  the  group 
in  which  you  yourself  travelled  en  route  for  Mass, 
and  already  much  belated,  passed  the  gable  of  the 
confirmed  old  bachelor,  Eamonn  Og's  cottage,  you 
discovered  he  had  only  reached  the  laundry  stage 

[294] 


WHEN  GOD  SENT  SUNDAY 

of  his  preparations.  On  his  door-step  he  was  de- 
voting to  the  washing  of  his  collar  as  much  vim 
and  energy  as  were  needed  for  laundering  a  pair  of 
trousers. 

"Eamonn  darlin',"  one  of  you,  astonished,  re- 
marked, "you  can't  overtake  Mass  the  day!" 

"Make  your  mind  aisy,"  said  Eamonn;  "I've 
caught  it  many's  a  day,  an'  been  further  behind 
than  this.  With  the  help  o'  Heaven  I'll  not  miss 
it  this  day,  either." 

And  he  didn't.  For,  when  you  got  within  a 
mile  of  the  chapel,  Eamonn  triumphantly  swept 
past  your  hurrying  group — with  the  collar  (which 
would  be  donned  ere  he  reached  the  chapel) 
pinned  to  dry  upon  the  shoulder  that  neighboured 
the  sun!  "If  there's  anywan  goin'  to  be  late  the 
day,"  he  reflected  aloud  in  his  gravest  tones, 
"  'tisn't  me." 

During  the  wait  before  Mass,  and  while  the 
male  portion  of  you  were  gathered  in  the  chapel- 
yard  and  graveyard  settling  the  affairs  of  nations, 
the  women,  having  gone  inside,  were  doing  the 
Stations  of  the  Cross;  or  offering  prayers  for  the 
dead,  and  prayers  for  the  living,  prayers  for  the 
present,  prayers  for  the  absent,  and  an  occasional 
toothful  of  prayer  for  themselves — the  great 
majority  of  them  praying  silently,  devoutly, 
earnestly,   in  a   manner  touching  and  impressive. 

[295] 


WHEN  GOD  SENT  SUNDAY 

Always,  however,  Shiela  the  Shuiler  in  one  corner 
of  the  chapel  vied  with  the  Bacach  Beag  in  an 
opposite  corner,  in  the  interest  of  their  benefactors 
supplicating  the  saints  as  though  they  were  stone- 
deaf;  whilst,  collected  around  the  altar-rails,  a 
gathering  of  bacachs,  and  professional  veteens, 
led  to  the  assault  by  the  Bacach  Fada,  unmistaka- 
bly testified  their  faith  in  the  doctrine  that  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven  was  to  be  taken  by 
violence. 

The  most  important  and  imposing  personage  of 
all  the  gathering  at  Mass — not  excepting  even 
the  priest  himself — was  Barney,  the  Priest's  Boy; 
a  boy  long  since  turned  three-score,  who  wore  an 
air  of  gravest  responsibility  that  inspired  awe  into 
the  souls  of  all,  and  of  the  old  women  around  the 
altar-rails  especially.  The  priest  had  on  his  shoul- 
ders only  the  cares  of  the  parish,  but  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  Priest's  Boy  were  piled  both 
priest  and  parish.  It  was  little  wonder,  then,  that 
his  back  was  bent. 

When  you  listened,  fascinated,  to  Barney  clerk- 
ing Mass,  you  never  ceased  to  marvel  at  the 
felicity  and  facility  with  which  he  gave  back  to  the 
priest  as  good  as  he  got,  making  the  learned  Latin 
spin  about  him,  and  the  dry  bones  of  that  dead 
language  rattle  as  though  it  would  leap  to  life 
again. 

[296] 


WHEN  GOD  SENT  SUNDAY 

You  felt  that  there  could  be  no  other  spot  in 
the  whole  wide  world  where  people  showed  so 
much  true  piety  and  earnest  devotion  as  did  this 
congregation,  kneeling  upon  this  bare,  hard  floor, 
their  minds  concentrated  upon  the  solemn  office 
proceeding,  their  souls  uplifted  to  God,  and  their 
lips  pleading  in  prayer.  The  dilatoriness  of 
Father  Cormac — when  Barney  Brian  (in  some 
soreness  of  spirit)  accurately  enough  described  as 
"a  mortal  good  Summer  priest" — gave  them  no 
concern,  no  thought.  They  only  reflected  that, 
while  the  holy  prayers  proceeded,  it  was  their 
privilege,  as  well  as  their  duty,  to  keep  their  hearts 
with  God  throughout — which  they  did  in  a  man- 
ner that  was  surely  pleasing  to  Him  beyond 
pleasure  given  in  greater  churches,  with  more 
gorgeous  surroundings,  which  you  afterwards  at- 
tended, with  more  richly  dressed  people,  who, 
though  they  were  possibly  as  sincere,  certainly 
came  not  nearer  to  God  than  did  these  pure- 
hearted,  faithful-souled  worshippers  of  the  moun- 
tain-moors. 

Of  course,  you  knew  that,  as  a  set-off  to  the 
edifying  spectacle  within,  there  was,  just  outside 
the  chapel-door,  upon  one  knee,  and  with  cap  in 
hand,  awaiting  the  last  word  of  blessing  from  the 
old  priest's  lips,  a  band  of  vagabonds  from  the 
Eskeragh,  young  in  years,  but  old  in  crime,  the 

[297] 


WHEN  GOD  SENT  SUNDAY 

parish-outcasts,  who,  at  the  Easter  Stations,  had 
shamefully  to  drag  themselves  to  the  dreaded  con- 
fessional, and  plead  guilty  to  pipe-smoking, 
tobacco-chewing,  throwing  rocks  down  Bid  Mon- 
aghan's  chimney  to  hear  her  curse,  and,  blackest 
of  all,  playing  -cards  for  horny  buttons  at  the 
back  of  a  ditch  on  Sundays !  And  in  the  very 
midst  of  these  Eskeragh  reprobates,  grievous  to 
relate,  was  always  to  be  found  Eamonn  Og,  wor- 
ried with  thought  of  his  deserted  little  house  and 
farm,  and  cattle  that  cried  for  drink  and  fodder 
(he  could  hear  them  through  his  most  heartfelt 
prayer),  eager  to  be  the  first  man  away  as  he 
was  the  last  to  arrive.  These  double-eyed 
Eskeragh  scoundrels  were  the  Priest's  Boy's  heart- 
break. Only  two  things  could  compel  them  inside 
the  chapel  proper — Father  Dan's  stick  or  the 
breaking  of  the  weather.  But  the  vagabonds  in- 
variably adjourned  again  under  Heaven's  canopy 
immediately  the  weather  cleared  or  Father  Dan 
disappeared.  And  perhaps,  indeed,  it  were  profit- 
able to  the  good  priest,  and  you  the  earnest  con- 
gregation, if  these  ruffians  should  remain  in  outer 
darkness  (so  to  speak).  For,  when  they  were 
coerced  recipients  of  grace  within  the  chapel,  they 
had  an  awkward  habit  of  mistaking  each  new  turn 
of  Father  Dan's  sermon  for  the  final  exhortation, 
which  always  brought  the  sighing,  sobbing  congre- 

[298] 


WHEN  GOD  SENT  SUNDAY 

gation  to  its  knees,  supplicating  guidance  on  the 
righteous  path  eternally. 

The  Eskeragh  ruffians,  when  they  considered 
that  Father  Dan  had  spoken  long  enough  for 
them,  would  at  the  first  convenient  turn  in  his 
discourse,  with  mighty  coughing  and  shuffling  of 
feet  and  some  sighing  and  groaning,  suggestive 
of  the  multitude  going  on  its  knees,  prostrate 
themselves  as  hungering  to  make  their  pious  re- 
solve. And  thus,  more  than  once,  they  stamped 
poor  Father  Dan  into  his  powerful  peroration,  ere 
the  body  of  his  much-needed,  long-studied  dis- 
course had  been  well  broached. 

Only,  one  Sunday  they  made  the  grave  mistake 
of  trying  their  vile  ruse  in  too  close  proximity  to 
the  stout  arm  of  Nabla  MacCailin — to  whom 
every  rascal's  heart  of  these  was  like  a  draper's 
window.  Oiney  Ciotach,  the  ringleader  of  the 
gang,  as  he  chafed  an  inflamed  ear  outside  the 
chapel,  could  only  recall  that  he  had  struck  the 
side  of  his  head  against  a  thunder-clap,  and  that 
the  chapel,  the  congregation  and  Father  Dan 
began  a  pir'uetting  manoeuvre,  the  apparent  levity 
of  which  he  could  not  for  some  time  reconcile  with 
the  spirit  of  the  time  and  the  place. 

But  'tis  well  you  remember  the  Sunday  that 
Father  Dan  tried  the  plan  of  putting  two  guards 
upon  the  door,  after  he  had  driven  in  the  grace- 

[299] 


WHEN  GOD  SENT  SUNDAY 

less  ones  (and  big  Eamonn,  of  course) — yourself 
and  Phelim  McGrath  being  the  trusty  ones  se- 
lected— the  angels  with  flaming  swords  guarding 
the  gate  for  purpose  of  holding  the  happy  ones 
in.  Now  the  fretting  Eamonn — who  could  never 
afford  the  luxury  of  dallying  in  chapel  to  get  the 
benefit  of  the  trimmings — unconcernedly  started 
for  the  door  as  the  Last  Gospel  was  ending.  You 
two  brave  guardians  at  the  exit  undauntedly 
planted  yourselves  in  the  doorway.  Your  duty  was 
unpleasant,  but,  like  the  true  heroes  that  you 
were,  you  determined  to  perform  it. 

"Eamonn,"  you  began  apologetically,  as  the 
big  man  bore  down  on  you,  "Father  Dan,  on  our 

paril,  warned  us "     But  Eamonn,  impolitely 

interrupting  your  announcement,  just  gripped  each 
of  you,  guardian-angels,  by  the  back  of  the  neck; 
one  in  each  hand,  he  lifted  you  through  the  door- 
way, and,  laying  you  down  undamaged  on  either 
side,  gravely  set  out  homeward.  He  had  wasted 
no  word. 

So  keenly  did  Phelim  and  yourself  feel  the  ig- 
nominy of  the  affair  that  you  slunk  away  from 
your  posts;  and  the  imprisoned  Eskeragh  repro- 
bates, who  had  thought  themselves  condemned  to 
sermon  and  small  prayers,  thanked  Heaven  with 
their  hearts — some  of  them  with  their  lips,  too — 
as  they  made  a  joyous  burst  to  freedom, 

[300] 


WHEN  GOD  SENT  SUNDAY 

When  all  the  devotional  exercises  had  con- 
cluded, and  Father  Dan  had  counselled,  blessed 
and  dismissed  the  congregation,  many  women  re- 
mained. Some  wanted  to  say  the  Stations  of  the 
Cross,  led  again  by  the  Bacach  Faciei,  who,  though 
himself  beyond  need  of  extra  prayer,  in  spiritual 
generosity  performed  every  Sunday  this  meritori- 
ous task  for  the  benefit  of  the  sinful.  Some 
waited  to  pray  privately — for  their  poor  girl  in 
America,  or  their  unfortunate  boy  at  home,  beat- 
ing their  breasts  in  retired  corners  of  the  chapel. 
Some  who,  like  Eamonn  Og,  heard  their  cattle 
calling,  started  hastily  for  home.  A  knot  of 
shawled  and  white-capped  women,  demanding 
audience  of  the  Father,  charged  the  Sacristy  door, 
and  were  valiantly  held  at  bay  by  the  Priest's 
Boy,  while  the  starving  priest  should  swallow  an 
egg  and  a  cup  of  tea,  both  of  which  Barney  had 
boiled  for  him  within.  Barney  fought  off  the  as- 
sailants with  tongue  and  fist — weapons  moral 
(sometimes)  and  physical.  One  of  these  women 
wanted  an  Office  for  wee  Mary  in  Philadelphy; 
one,  advice  what  to  do  with  her  sick  cow;  another, 
to  inform  his  Reverence  that  the  Agent  had 
served  an  "injection  process"  because  young 
Danny  wouldn't  pull  his  forelock  to  him;  one 
woman  wanted  him  to  cure  her  tooth-ache;  one 
needed  the  loan  of  a  pound  till  she'd  sell  her  pig; 

[301  ] 


WHEN  GOD  SENT  SUNDAY 

another,  that  Father  Dan  would  keep  the  Bal- 
rithery  boys  from  trespassing  on  her  Nor'aist 
Park;  and  one,  more  clamorous  than  all  the  rest, 
insisted  that  he'd  put  her  son  Johnnie  from  talk- 
ing to  a  daughter  of  the  Donnellans. 

You  with  the  men  gathered  in  the  yard  and 
continued  discussions  that  the  announcement  of 
Mass  had  interrupted.  You  hearkened,  en- 
thralled, to  Jimminy  the  Tailor,  ascetic  enthusiast, 
as  he  descanted  upon  the  greatness  of  the  great 
old  Irish  leader  whom  he  adored — Butt,  who 
made  both  houses  of  the  Foreigner's  Parliament 
tremble.  Jimminy  held  in  his  hand  a  copy  of  The 
Nation,  which  he  waved  as  he  spoke. 

And  you  will  recall  how  Mattha  MacAnrin,  the 
rank  materialist  of  the  parish,  drawing  upon  the 
group,  listened  in  silence  for  some  time,  till  he 
gathered  that  Jimminy  MacCailin  was  merely  in- 
dulging in  a  political  rhapsody,  and  then  spoke 
at  inopportune  time  just  as  Jimminy,  enwrapt 
with  the  spell  of  his  own  eloquence,  and  reaching 
a  climax  that  held  you  all  breathless,  was  thunder- 
ing: "Says  the  undaunted  Butt,  shakin'  his  fist 
in  the  face  of  the  Prime  Minister  of  all  England, 
says  he " 

"Jimminy  MacCailin,  will  ye  stop  your 
blatherskite,  an'  tell  us  out  o'  that  paper  in  your 
fist  how  bullocks  went  at  Ballinasloe?" 

[302] 


WHEN  GOD  SENT  SUNDAY 

Jimmy,  paralyzed  to  silence,  fixed  Mattha  with 
a  look  of  holy  indignation,  blended  with  wither- 
ing contempt.  All  of  you  looked  swords  and  guns 
at  the  sordid  man — who,  however  (just  like  the 
hardened  wretch  he  was),  didn't  seem  one  bit 
abashed. 

"Sir,"  Jimminy  thundered,  when  he  found  his 
speech,  "this  paper  concerns  itself — not  with  the 
truckin'  and  hucksterin'  of  bullocks,  but  with  some- 
thin'  your  miserable  poor  soul  knows  nothin', 
and  cares  less,  about.  I  refer  to  the  risin'  of 
Freedom's  gloryus  sun  over  a  Freeman's  Parlia- 
ment in  Dublin's  College  Green!" 

Mattha,  instead  of  withering  up  under  Jim- 
miny's  scorching  words,  just  gazed  with  some 
scorn  at  Jimminy's  spare  form  and  ascetic  counte- 
nance, as  he  answered:  "Hach !  you'd  have  big- 
ger fat  on  yer  bones,  then,  if  ye  gave  more  thought 
to  bullocks  and  less  to  Butt."  And  having  fired 
his  embarrassing  shot,  the  earthy  creature  con- 
temptuously turned  on  his  heels  and  went  home 
to  herd  his  brother-bullocks. 

"That  worm,"  said  Jimminy,  with  quivering 
finger,  dramatically  indicating  the  retiring  Mattha, 
and  speaking  with  such  luxurious  wealth  of  con- 
tempt as  made  you  smack  your  lips — "that  grovel- 
ling worm  is  the  granite  millstone  tied  round  Ire- 
land's neck,  and  till,  like  Jonah,  we  cast  him  an' 

[303] 


WHEN  GOD  SENT  SUNDAY 

his  like  to  hungerin'  whales,  we  never  need  expect 
to  sail  in  safety  to  the  gloryus  harbour  of 
Freedom." 

And  with  heavy  hearts,  you  all  clerked  "Amen!" 

But  Jimminy's  grief,  and  yours,  for  the  un- 
worthy ones  with  whom  poor  Ireland  was  still 
burthened  and  bowed — and  all  the  griefs  of  all 
of  you — were  certain  to  melt  quickly  away  before 
the  sunniness  and  joyousness  of  the  easeful,  care- 
free, happy,  holy  afternoon  and  evening  of  your 
Sunday  at  Knocknagar. 

But  ah !  sure  always,  night  and  noon,  you  were 
invoking  God  to  send  and  hold  His  holy  Sabbath 
peace  and  rest,  and  joy  and  beauty,  in  the  brave 
hearts  of  the  neighbours,  and  on  the  bright  hills 
and  shadowy  glens  of  your,  and  His,  beloved  and 
lovely  Knockagar. 

And  He  will. 

END 


L  304  J 


"Histories make  men  wise;  poets  witty'* — Bacon 

Twenty-five  Years' 
Reminiscences 

By  Katharine  Tynan 

Author  of  "Her  Ladyship,"  "Alary  Gray,"  "Men  and  Maids," 

etc. 

This  "Notable  Book"  is  Strikingly  Opportune 

Because  of  Home  Rule  Success 

No  book  of  recent  years  has  been  given  so  much  space  and 
praise  by  the  leading  literary  papers  of  the  world. 

History,  Autobiography,  Anecdote  and  delightful  tales  of 
celebrities  by  the  poet-novelist  who  knew  intimately  most  of 
the  prominent  men  and  women  of  an  interesting  and  eventful 
period — Lord  Russell,  Parnell,  Gladstone,  Father  Russell, 
Lady  Wilde,  Oscar  Wilde,  T.  D.  Sullivan,  Louise  Imogen 
Guiney,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  the  Rossettis  and  many  others. 
Fifty  half-tone  pictures.  Photogravure  frontispiece  from  the 
painting  by  J.  B.  Yeats,  R.  H.  A.,  in  the  Dublin  Art  Gallery. 

She  writes,  as  always,  in  an  interesting  strain,  and  tells  of 
men  and  matters  calculated  to  possess  an  abiding  interest  for 
all  of  Irish  birth.  .  .  .  The  polished  carelessness  of  her 
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mately as  a  diary,  wherein  great  and  small,  tragic  and  trivial, 
mingle  and  jostle  as  in  a  crowd. — The  Nation. 

Political  events,  the  picturing  of  critical  episodes  in  mod- 
ern Irish  history,  are  chronicled  in  Miss  Tynan's  fascinating 
volume  of  reminiscences. — The  Boston  Transcript. 

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The  Eighth  Year 

By  PHILIP  GIBBS 

Author  of  "The  Street  of  Adventure,"  "Helen  of  Lancaster 
Gate,"  "Intellectual  Mansions,"  etc.,  etc. 

A  novel  built  on  the  declaration  of  Sir  Francis  Jeune  (af- 
terward Lord  St.  Helier),  President  of  the  Divorce  Court 
of  England — "The  Eighth  Year  is  the  most  dangerous  year 
in  the  Adventure  of  Marriage." 

It  has  been  said  that  the  most  valuable  and  most  powerful 
books  that  are  written  nowadays  are  those  which  deal  with 
marital  troubles  and  disputes  of  the  home.  If  so,  Philip 
Gibbs'  new  book,  "The  Eighth  Year,"  must  take  first  rank. 
.  .  .  It  is  a  remarkable  book,  and  one  destined  to  attract 
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That  the  eighth  year  of  marriage  is  the  dangerous  year  is 
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to  provoke  controversy.  You  may  disagree  with  much  of 
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true. — Daily  Chronicle. 

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merit— A  REAL  BOY'S  STORY— bright,  wholesome  and  in- 
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